


Foolish Passions

by ElizabethHades



Category: North and South (UK TV), North and South - Ambiguous Fandom, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Daniela Denby-Ashe, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Jealousy, Kissing, Love, Misunderstandings, Retelling, Richard Armitage - Freeform, Riots, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 94,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23989216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethHades/pseuds/ElizabethHades
Summary: a.k.a. In which John Thornton does a great deal of kissing.If the missive had met its mark: What would have been if the stone had struck John Thornton instead of Margaret Hale on that fateful day at Marlborough Mills? A tense, angst-ridden, mid-canon, slow-burn HEA Retelling of North and South from the day of the riot, both book and TV miniseries based. *COMPLETE* (epilogues to follow)(Formerly titled: MISSIVES & MISUNDERSTANDINGS)
Relationships: Hannah Thornton & John Thornton, John Thornton & Nicholas Higgins, John Thornton & Richard Hale, John Thornton/Anne Latimer, Margaret Hale & Frederick Hale, Margaret Hale & John Thornton, Margaret Hale & Nicholas Higgins, Margaret Hale/Henry Lennox, Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Comments: 231
Kudos: 313





	1. Riot

“Go home! He is one man and you are many!”

The crowd stilled for an instant. The sudden appearance of a woman, and one so well liked as Miss Margaret, had momentarily deflated the restless, rowdy mob of striking workers that filled Marlborough Mill’s yard. 

“Please!” she pleaded, “The soldiers are coming. Go home before things get out of hand!”

“Will ye’ send t’ Irish home?” 

“Never!” he roared, stepping out in front of her. Mr Thornton was no coward. He would not hide behind anyone, not even a person of such admirable and impressive courage as Miss Margaret Hale.

A wave of violent restlessness rippled through the crowd. They bellowed their discontent like some great, injured animal. Margaret sensed rather than saw the arm, long and half starved from two weeks of striking, swing up high over the sea of flat caps and greasy heads. 

She did not see the object hurtling in their direction. She did not hear the smack of brick against skin as it reached its mark, or the grunt of its victim as his body registered its impact. But she did observe the sway of inertia as he tried to steady himself, his arms unfurling from the tight knot that had held them over his chest. She saw him stagger forward, unsteady on his long legs, then watched, paralysed as the whole solid trunk of his body collapsed backwards, like some great elm felled in the forest. 

Mr Thornton had been struck. 

She stared in disbelief at the great and proud Milton Mill Master lying crumpled at her feet. So still, so pale… was he dead? Why had he fallen? She didn’t know. There were too many thoughts in her head. Too many feelings. Compassion, of course, and christian concern. Fear, panic and something else… something gripping, alarming, unknown.

She knelt beside him, checking his cotton and wool clad chest for any sign of movement. The chain of his pocket watch glinted up at her. She remembered the wistful warmth in his voice when he had shown her his father’s initials engraved on the back. ‘G.T.’, so he always carried a part of him, wherever he went. It had been the first time she had seen his face melt into some semblance of a smile. The first time she had enjoyed his company as they sat in her father’s study, discussing poetry, parliament, and Plato. Her heart sank as she imagined the possibility that it might have been the last.

“‘Tis alright lass, the’s fight left in ‘im yet,” said a familiar voice at her elbow. She turned to see Higgins, red-faced and out of breath. 

“I came as soon as I ‘eard. Fools, th’ lot o’ ‘em” he explained, gently turning the master’s head to locate the wound. “Throwin’ stones like that. We’ll never get th’ masters t’ see reason wi’ us behavin’ like wild animals. I warned ‘em, miss, I said… ah! there ‘tis” he pointed to a penny-sized gash that was oozing blood on Thornton’s left temple. 

“We need to get him inside,” said Margaret, “Nicholas, can you hook his arms about your shoulders? I will help you…”

“Aye, Miss Margaret, give us a moment.”

Margaret rose and turned to face the crowd. They had fallen silent. The sight of the author of their grievances struck down by one of their own missives had knocked the wind out of them, and their anger. The union leaders had warned them against such a display. They had said it would only undermine their cause. What would they do now? 

“Go home.” She commanded, as gently and firmly as she could, “Your master has been struck down by....” She could not bring herself to say the words. She could see the fear written on their faces; the desperation hanging from their gaunt bodies. Poor, pitiful creatures, driven mad with hunger. “Please... Boucher, Peterson, Denby... You there, Ashe, take your brothers and leave. The soldiers are coming. Please, this is not the way.”

“You ‘eard t’ lady! Clear out!” Higgins cried, appearing at her side. His voice strained under the weight of the Master he had finally managed to hoist over one of his shoulders. “Be gone, th’ lot o’ ye’! Before th’ soldiers or th’ union get ‘old of ye’!”

“Nicholas!” Margaret exclaimed, rushing around him to shoulder some of the Master’s weight herself. She draped his right arm across her back and gripped his long, calloused fingers to keep him in place. He was warm, and he was heavy. His eyes were half shut and his mouth hung open, his expression one of acute pain. He mumbled incoherently as they heaved him up the few steps to the front door. 

Behind them the mill yard was emptying in a quick and surprisingly orderly manner. By the time the soldiers arrived, there were no more than a few stragglers halfheartedly kicking about bits of debris, an attempt to express their discontent at the unexpected turn of events. 

The door creaked loudly on its hinges before slamming into the wall. Margaret paused to catch her breath, before looking aghast at the daunting flight of stairs stretching upwards before them. Even with his great weight shared between the two of them, she was not certain they would reach the top.

“Wu’ll manage, Miss Margaret,” grunted Higgins, as if reading her mind. His gruff voice seemed to rouse the man they were supporting between their shoulders. He startled awake.

“Miss Hale? Miss Margaret Hale, she is here? Where is she?” he said, looking around wildly. Sensing Higgins at his side he leant towards him, pursing his lips and shaking his head “She does not like it here, no. She does not like Milton, or the mill, or even me for that ma...”

“Mr Thornton, I…” she began to protest weakly. 

“Miss Hale!” he exclaimed gleefully, twisting his head, blinking slowly, and flashing her an incongruously bright smile. “There you are! Oh Miss Hale… do not be frightened. The soldiers will be here soon.” He bent his head towards her, “You smell like a flower Miss Hale.” His voice lowered, as if confiding some great secret, “but there are no flowers in Milton.”

Margaret fixed Higgins with a pleading, panicked look. What on earth was happening? The man seemed faintly amused. He had seen head trauma before, and did not find the Master’s newfound loquaciousness shocking. At least he was still talking, albeit a little indecorously. His silence would have been far more alarming. 

“Come, let’s get ye’ upstairs,”

His ramblings continued as they made their way upstairs, although he was not as merry as he had been upon discovering Margaret’s presence at his side. He protested his ascension, saying he was needed at the mill, that some of the orders would be delayed, that Fanny’s spending had gotten out of hand, that last night’s lamb hadn’t been cooked to his liking…

Higgins had humoured him with short, placating responses, offering a reassuring smile as Margaret’s brow had creased and furrowed in worry at the state of their invalid. By the time they had reached the parlour, removed his coat and laid (or rather dropped) his long, hard body onto the largest chaise longue, she found herself chuckling affectionately at his endearing vulnerability. Her heart wrenched when a quiet, almost inaudible “Father, where have you…” escaped his lips as he sank into soft velvet.

\---

Mrs Thornton was just coming up from the kitchens when she came upon Higgins hurrying out the front door. Why, of all the bloody nerve...

“What, had yer fill of the mill, have ye’?,” she spat at his back, “Come to loot and plunder our home as well?”

Higgins paused before turning to face the formidable woman. 

“Th’ Master’s taken ill.” he said calmly, “‘im took a blow to th’ head, I was going for th’ doctor.” He glanced thoughtfully upstairs, “‘though th’ soldiers need seein’ to, n’ someone ‘as t’ start cleanin’ up th’ mess.”

Mrs Thornton’s impassive face drained of the little colour it had. 

“John… My boy John! I must go to him!” she began to gird her opulent skirts lest they dare to impede her haste.

“‘im’s not alone, Mrs Thornton. Miss Margaret’s attending to ‘im.” Higgins interrupted, “She dun’t know where t’ find th’ Doctor, and ‘er company seems t’ be comfortin’ ‘im well enough.”

Mrs Thornton glared at him, her mouth hardening into a grim line. 

“Very well. I will go for the Doctor, and see to the soldiers.” she said after a seething pause “you can stay here and sort out the mess your rabble left behind!”

\---

After despatching one maid to locate Mrs Thornton, and the other to prepare a fortifying pot of tea, Margaret had asked for some hot water and a clean rag. The sight of blood did not affect her, as she had often accompanied her father on his visits to the ill and infirm of Helstone. Mr Thornton had returned to his state of semi-audible muttering, his eyes half closed. His brows were contracted, and she could see his pupils darting about under the thin skin of his eyelids. His mind was active, perhaps he was dreaming? Higgins had told her this was a good sign, that it was a deeper slumber that presented the real danger. 

But she sensed that he was uncomfortable. Beyond the pain of his injury, his body was tense. His breathing was laboured and he seemed to squirm ever so slightly with every inhalation. She scanned his person quickly, hoping to find how she might provide him with some relief. Her eyes came to rest on the thick, black cravat that tightly adorned his neck. She hesitated. Could she be so bold?

Lifting trembling fingers to the dark knot, she took purchase on its silky ends. “Forgive me, Mr Thornton,” she whispered, “I assure you it is only for your comfort.” She tugged lightly at the fabric, and it came undone more easily than she had imagined. She exhaled a sigh in relief; the thing was done and his breathing seemed more relaxed. 

Encouraged by her small success, she took up the rag and dipped it in the hot water. She took his jaw in her hand and gently tilted his face downwards, exposing the wound to allow herself better access. She was surprised at the roughness of his cheek, and absent mindedly brushed her fingertips along the pleasant prickliness of his jaw. She had never felt a man’s face before.

His face contorted as she pressed the warm, wet rag to his injured temple. She wasn’t sure of the wound’s exact location; there was so much blood and bruising. As she padded the area clean she was relieved to find that it wasn’t as large as she had feared, and was no longer bleeding profusely. But she still heard a small uncomfortable moan rumble in his throat each time she made contact with the cut. 

Higgins had told her to talk to him, to try and keep his senses engaged, but she could think of nothing to say. Inquiring about his comfort seemed moot, petitioning him not to die far too maudlin. So she decided to sing to him. She began quietly, prefacing her performance with an apology for inflicting her talents (or lack thereof) on him when he had no means of escape. Soon she was lost in her song, her caring caresses and this intoxicating closeness to him. The repetition of her ministrations, and the cadence of the familiar melody soothed her into a trance. Had anyone been there to witness it, there could be no doubt that she found pleasure in the quiet intimacy between herself and her patient.

So lost was she that she did not notice his eyes snap open, pupils dilated, to fix her own. She did not register as he studied her face, taking in the full force of its breathtaking beauty at such close range. She did not notice his breath quicken, and his mouth stretch upwards into a warm, amorous smile. She startled when he reached out his hand and grabbed her own, stopping its journey to his face in mid air. She dropped the rag in shock when his finger slipped under her fine, silver bracelet, holding it in place at her wrist, before releasing it, letting it tumble back down to catch on the fuller flesh of her arm.

“There it goes again!” he whispered, his face a picture of delight. 

He had heard her voice, calling to him, across a meadow greener than any he had ever seen. She was clothed in the sun, clothed in light, her hair tumbling well past her shoulders and a welcoming smile spread wide across her exquisite face. She wore a veil, and the meadow was now a churchyard. He was wearing his finest suit, and she was his gift on this special day. His birthday, was it? No, that was in December. It was clearly summer; she was barefoot, and the sun was giving him a headache.

She smelled like flowers, and was reaching out for him. Now he was undressed, wearing only his shirtsleeves and trousers. Mother was there, and father, smiling proudly. Fanny was there, chirpy, chubby thing; all curls and pink cheeks; bouncing away on mother’s hip. Then there was just her. They were walking hand in hand, beside a river. They were alone. They were together. She was caressing his face. She was singing. She was his. 

Now she wore that bracelet. Now her hair was pinned back. Now she smelled like flowers and soap; and she was just inches from his face. She was dressed in everyday clothes. He could not see her feet. Her cheeks were flushed with colour. He held her by the hand. They were back in Milton. Which room in heaven was this? 

He took her by her dainty fingers and brought her hand to his mouth. He closed his eyes and placed a lingering kiss on her palm, opening them again to watch her expression. His actions held her spellbound and he smiled as he nuzzled the fragrant skin of her wrist.

He placed her hand on his shoulder and reached up to cup her face. She was barely a breath away from him and he treasured the slight tremble of her lips as her eyes glanced down to his own. His thumb traced a lazy curve over the satin of her cheek as he took her in, breathed her in. She was here. She was his. 

He pulled her face towards his own, and pressed his lips to hers. His fingertips toyed with the curls that had come undone at her nape, and his nose brushed against her cheek. He moved his mouth against hers. Oh, but this was all of heaven! It was every single room! But why did his head ache so? 

He tugged her closer to him, finding relief in reclining further back into the chaise. She had lost her balance and was now leaning over him, both her hands pressed against his broad chest. He held her face fast against his own, daring to trace his tongue across the seam of her lips. Instinctively they parted, and he pulled her deeper into himself as he gently plundered her mouth. 

Something outside of them made her pull away. Gaining leverage on his chest, she pushed herself up to look him in the eye. The colour drained from her face as she came to the realisation of what had just passed between them. She had been kissed, and she had kissed. _They_ had kissed. Her and _Mr Thornton!_ Why had she let him? Why hadn’t she retreated? She leaned back away from him and began to scramble to her feet. He sat up, never taking his eyes from her; a soft, adoring look on his face. He made to rise to assist her to her feet, but the motion proved too much for him, and his eyes wavered shut as he collapsed back into the plush velvet once again. 

“Oh, what have I done?!” she gasped to herself. Confused and horrified in equal measure, she stood staring at his motionless body, her pale hands clutching her face. Was kissing handsome, delirious, mill masters in broad daylight not thrilling enough for her? Had she now killed him as well?!

She let out a sigh of relief as she saw his lips move and the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was alive! Just faint from the effort he had made in an attempt to assist her. He still looked uncomfortable. 

“Oh Mr Thornton, what can I do?!”

She moved towards him, but stopped short, her hands outstretched as if to ward off the temptation to touch him again. Her mind was so completely addled, she had not heard the door swing open. She had not heard the footsteps approaching. She had not heard the sharp intake of breath, and the knuckles cracking under the clenching fists.

“I believe you have done quite enough here, Miss Hale” a voice growled behind her. 

  
  



	2. Reputations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers!
> 
> Welcome to chapter 2 of M&M, and thank you so much for taking the time to read my story. It's really thrilling for me to read all your comments and see all your follows come in!
> 
> This story was born of an idea for a premise I hadn't yet encountered on any of the Fanfiction websites, as well as a lot of encouragement from the dearest, loveliest darkpartofmydestiny; and I am so very glad you are enjoying it. I've also peppered it liberally with book and series-based easter eggs, so let me know when you spot them!
> 
> And last thing, I'm really keen to improve my romance writing with this project, so please don't hold back on the reviews, comments, thoughts, suggestions and critiques. Seriously, I'm very thick-skinned and eager to learn.
> 
> Anyway, enough from me... enjoy this longer chapter. For all the Thorntonites (is that a thing?) out there, I know this chapter is a little light on our beloved John, but the next won't be, I promise!

“Mrs Thornton!” Margaret gasped, stumbling away from the chaise. “I did not hear you come in!” 

“I thought as much,” she replied curtly. “Come Doctor, he seems to have fainted again.” She bustled past Margaret to kneel on the floor by her son’s head. Though her expression betrayed very little, there was something in the shine of her eyes that indicated a storm of feeling straining against the check in which she was holding her entire person. Maternal affection and concern, Margaret thought. 

“He… Mr Thornton was… awoke just now,” she stammered, not sure how much of what had just occurred would be medically relevant. “He spoke very little, and was behaving a little strangely...” 

“ _ He _ was behaving strangely?” shot Mrs Thornton incredulously. She glared at Margaret as though she were some foul thing she had been unfortunate enough to step in. 

“What of the injury?” asked the doctor, “was there much blood loss?”

“Somewhat,” replied Margaret, grateful for the respite from Mrs Thornton’s murderous glower, “the rag was stained, but not completely soaked through. There it is…” she turned away squeamishly to face the window, swallowing thickly, “upon his… his…”

“His _ lap _ , Miss Hale, where I assume you dropped it during your…  _ ministrations _ ” Mrs Thornton flashed her a withering look before resuming the gentle stroking of her son’s now untidy, black mane.

After inspecting the cloth in question, the doctor lifted one of Thornton’s eyelids, and then the other. He tilted his head this was and that. He felt his neck, checked his pulse, and kneaded the back of his head. “You mentioned strange behaviour,” he said, turning for the first time to Margaret, “what was it exactly?”

“Well, he seemed, confused…” she began, conscious of how her words might be misconstrued, “he spoke of many things, and all of them at once, as if his thoughts were all tangled together. He seemed cheerful, and then sad, and then…” She paused, considering how much more she should disclose to the doctor. It was not just her own reputation that was at risk from their impropriety; she knew enough of this proud Milton family to surmise that he would be bound to her in honour, should their shocking encounter ever come to light. “...confused again.”

“Ah… well that is to be expected.” replied the scotsman, gripping the edge of the chaise longue and rising gracelessly to his feet. “Head injuries are unpredictable things. Mrs Thornton,” he said, reaching into his leather case and pulling out a small, leatherbound book, “Do you have any laudanum in the house? I’m afraid Mr Thornton is most likely to be in a great deal of pain when he awakes...”

“So he will awaken? You are certain?” ejaculated Margaret, rushing towards him, “He is in no danger?”

Dr Donaldson, taken aback but this sudden display, took a moment to respond before he was interrupted by a decisive rustling of skirts.

“You must forgive us, Miss Hale, for it appears we have trespassed on your time for far too long.” The look in her eye was one that would brook no opposition. “My son needs my attention, and no doubt your mother will be wondering where you have gotten to.”

Margaret attempted to meet her gaze with as much dignity as she could muster, but found herself completely disarmed by the sheer force of emotion trying to break through the tight mask held over Mrs Thornton’s wide, white face. Was that anger? No, that was rage. Hatred, disgust, and something else; something wild and wicked welling up in her eyes. 

Mrs Thornton succeeded in staring Margaret down. In truth, the young lady’s spirits were in such turmoil that she conceded defeat more readily that she was wont. She made no reply, and with one final, wistful glance at the man lying unconscious on the chaise, she nodded wordlessly to his mother and the doctor, and took her leave. 

The yard was empty as she crossed from the house to the gate, oblivious to Higgins’ call to her from the shed. He had been helping Williams, one of the overseers, to discard the detritus left behind by the strikers. He was angry and ashamed of the workers’ vicious and desperate behaviour, but he was not about to give the masters the satisfaction of painting him and the other union leaders with the same tarnished brush. He was a thinking man; an honourable man, like many of the workers under his makeshift leadership, and he would strive to prove it to them. 

Higgins was keenly aware that his was a precarious position; that of a standard for the workers, and a loyal servant to the union. And now he was compelled to offer some sort of expiation for their sins, for if they were ever to gain any semblance of sympathy or respect from the masters, it would not do to be found condoning or even silent in the face of such a violent and thoughtless display. Williams condescended to thank him for his trouble, acknowledging the honourable nature of his intention to make amends. He would be sure to pass on any news of the Master, if Higgins was inclined to stop by at the mill door in the next few days. 

The creaky bustling and cheerful chatter she heard emanating from the parlour upstairs signalled that her mother was awake and most likely in good spirits. Margaret smiled. In truth mama had had very few good days since their arrival in Milton. It had appeared as though the smoke and dirt that hung about the city like some great, grey serpent had somehow seeped into Mrs Hale’s very lifeblood, draining her strength and painting her face an ashen, bilious hue. But today her voice sounded bright and alert, and was a precious and encouraging song to Margaret’s ears. She called up to announce her return, and went to wash the blood and grime off her hands before going up to her mother.

“Well Margaret?” said Mrs Hale cheerfully. She treasured the warm kiss her daughter gifted her cheek, but was eager to hear of the outcome of her excursion to the home of the indomitable Mrs Thornton. 

“Yes mama?” replied Margaret, distractedly. Since arriving at the comfort of her home she had felt an intense wave of fatigue sweep over her. It had been quite a morning! She barely heard the question on her mother’s lips, as she busied herself preparing a fresh cup of creamy tea for the both of them. 

Mrs Hale gaped at her daughter’s distraction, then shot a look of disbelief at Dixon, her faithful servant, maid and housekeeper from a time well before she had even entertained the thought of becoming  _ Mrs Hale _ . Did she not know that they had been waiting all morning for her to return with a positive report? Margaret would have to do better than that…

“Pray child, do not be shy, I want to hear all about it!” Mrs Hale said excitedly, “How did it feel? Did you like it? Was it very strange?”

Margaret’s mouth fell open. The delicate, fine bone china teacup trembled in her hand and its hot contents threatened to leap from its delicate edge and fill her mother’s lap. If it weren’t for Dixon rushing to relieve her of the dangerous, wobbling beverage, she would certainly have caused her mother’s fine silk dress, an irreparable injury. 

“Heavens, miss Margaret! You’re shaking like a leaf! I hope you’re not sickening…” 

“Forgive me Dixon, mama.” Margaret said, scarcely knowing where to look. Could it be that her mother had learned of her behaviour? Had Mrs Thornton seen her and her son in that strange embrace? Mama did not seem upset; and surely news could not travel any faster than she just had, quitting the Mill directly and heading straight back to Crampton. But how could she account for…

“The water mattress Margaret! Did Mrs Thornton agree to our request?” 

Margaret breathed an audible sigh of relief. In her haste and emotion she had quite forgotten the original object of her visit. Upon hearing that Mrs Hale had taken ill, Fanny had kindly proposed the use of their water mattress. Margaret had been sent to see the contraption, considered the very latest thing among London’s most fashionable infirm and neurotic. 

“Oh mama, I am afraid I quite forgot about the water mattress!” she paused, wincing in guilt at her mother’s pained expression, “You see, there was a riot at the mill. Mr Thornton was taken ill. I stayed to attend him, and then left as soon as the doctor arrived. There was no time to enquire after the mattress.” 

Mrs Hale gasped, and if it were at all possible, turned an even paler shade of white. If Margaret had considered that plain speaking was the best way to apologise for her forgetfulness, then she had not reckoned on the effect the actual content of her speech would inspire. 

“You… attended him? Margaret… ” Mrs Hale scarcely knew how to assemble the words she needed. Her only daughter, raised in London and presented at court, had spent the morning  _ attending to _ an eligible, (injured possibly, but mostly eligible) tradesman in his home! And Mr Thornton of all people! Why, one of the servants might have seen them! Would there be talk? People can be so cruel, and a woman’s reputation is a terribly brittle thing. Surely Margaret would not have been so thoughtless.

“Forgive me mama, I am alarming you!” she said, rushing to kneel at her mother’s feet and taking her small, soft hands in her own. “Mr Thornton was struck in the head by a missive. One of the workers and I got him inside, and as he was unconscious I merely bathed the wound on his brow and waited for the doctor to come.” She looked down, her stomach knotting in the anticipation of the untruth about to leave her lips. There was no way around it. “Nothing improper happened mama. I sent the maid to prepare some tea, and Mrs Thornton arrived shortly after. The doctor believes he will make a full recovery.”

She hesitated before chancing a glance at her mother’s face. Her cheeks had coloured a little and her eyes were closed, her shoulders rising and falling sharply as she allowed the relief to sweep the weight of momentary panic away from her. Dixon was rubbing her mistress’ arm with a firm gentleness that seemed to soothe her. After a few moments, she opened her eyes and smiled wearily at her daughter.

“Well Margaret, I am sure you did what you felt was best. It is too late to do anything about it now, at any rate.” 

“Yes mama.”

“Now I think I shall rest. My exertions this morning have left me quite tired.” 

“Yes mama.”

“And Margaret…”

“Yes mama?”

“Do not worry about the water mattress. I am sure we will find some other method. You should rest as well. You are quite pale and have had a very trying morning.”

“Yes mama.”

“I will see you later. Dixon?”

\---

Margaret had been surprised at her father’s seeming indifference to the tale of her morning’s unusual events. In truth she was a little disappointed. She had hoped to receive some sort of commendation for her compassionate care of Mr Thornton, a man whose life and livelihood she had had no qualms about abusing out loud to her father on many occasions. She expected to find some sort of relief in her father’s predictable praise of her good, christian character and presence of mind under such formidable circumstances. But she had been met with neither. In fact, she worried he had not heard her. He sat in silence for several long moments, before jolting out of his reverie to enquire after the state of his friend John. 

Margaret had repeated all that she had told her mother, and had welcomed her father’s lack of interrogation on the score of her potentially scandalous behaviour. She had not had to deceive him outright, but had found herself once again obliged to provide a more palatable version of events, devoid of any inappropriate embraces. 

They had spoken no more on the matter, and she had quite put the conversation from her mind until her father came down to the kitchens the next day. She was starching the linens, bent double over the low, wooden beam set out for that purpose, and so she barely heard the man enter, so soft was his footfall. She had taken to doing some of the laundry and ironing herself, and had learned some basic cooking, in order to relieve Dixon of some of her more menial duties so that she could better attend to the ailing Mrs Hale. 

“Er… Margaret…” 

“Father!” 

“Forgive me my dear! I did not mean to startle you. It’s just…” His brow furrowed as he attempted to scrape together an appropriate preface for what he had come down to say. “About what you told me yesterday. About the riot, and the stone, and Joh… Mr Thornton.”

“Yes?” She could not imagine what more there was to say on the subject, not in the least to her father. 

“Well, I have been thinking… that is… you know… when he was telling me about…” 

“Who, father?”

“Oh, Mr Piggott, my latest pupil. You met him last week, and he sent a note to bring up his reading with me today. One of Thornton’s referrals, as it happens.” 

“I see…” said Margaret, although she did not.

“I mean to say… Margaret my dear, your behaviour… Were things done, that is…” Mr Hale wrung his hands nervously, as if he might squeeze a full, coherent sentence out of them. “Are you quite sure you were not seen when you were er… alone with Mr Thornton? By some servant, or one of the workers perhaps?” 

Margaret felt the small flame of terror catch light in her belly. A dark crimson flush raced up from her core and coloured her face. Had someone seen? Had his new pupil; this acquaintance of Mr Thornton’s, somehow learned, in the space of less than a day, what had transpired between herself and his friend? 

Fearing above all the loss of her father’s good opinion over her concealment rather than the fact itself, she carefully picked her way through the words she would need to relate the situation as sensitively as possible. She was about to launch herself into her explanations when he threw his hands up in a gesture of begrudging surrender.

“Oh, perhaps it is just the way of people, when they are so huddled together in such a tight space, with nothing but work to occupy their minds! There is little else with which to employ their undoubtedly fertile imaginations...”

Margaret was confused. Of what, in heaven’s, was he now talking?

“Father, please, I do not understand!”

He stepped around the table to take her small, round hands in his own. Greying and wrinkled as they were, their warmth was a welcome comfort to her. She held them, and waited.

“Forgive me Margaret, for I have no doubt that nothing improper occurred between yourself and Mr Thornton. I know how much you dislike him!”

“I am not sure I dislike him so very much, father…” she contested weakly. Her father was not listening.

“It’s just that Ti… Mr Piggott was telling me a little about himself. How he worked his whole life in trade under one of Milton’s oldest and meanest cotton lords, but he inherited the means to live a more comfortable life, with enough to buy the mill in question. They are full of fascinating contradictions, these Milton men! Why, I’m sure apart from Thornton I’ve yet to meet a more eager or intelligent pupil than Piggott! Although I was surprised to discover he tends more towards Sophocles than Socrates- he is enamored of the theatre! But has had little chance to pursue his interest given…”

Margaret stared at her father, blinking and bewildered. She was used to his propensity to amble, rather than dash to the point, but just now she could not bear to be kept in suspense. Mr Piggott and his unfulfilled, thespian ambitions would have to wait.

“Father, please!”

The old man sighed, and looked his beloved daughter in the eye. She was, and always had been, a good girl; a credit to both her parents in every sense. She had blossomed into a particularly exceptional specimen of woman, he had surmised, since their removal to Milton. Perhaps not so much of a fine ‘lady’ as the term would be employed in the grand houses of London, where she had spent most of her formative years; but in his own eyes, and, he was convinced, in God’s. She was honest and compassionate, and had borne up more than admirably under the weight of reduced circumstances in which the family now found themselves. No, there was no doubt that the old Parson was incredibly proud of his passionate daughter. But had she had the clarity of mind to factor propriety into the equation?

“I have heard tell of a story, or rather, Mr Piggott confided it to me himself.”

He glanced at Margaret’s face. She was listening.

“His young cousin, raised in his house and under his care, and as dear as a sister to him, had been seen after dark some evening, walking arm in arm with a young man. One of the agents employed at one of the smaller cotton mills. It seems there had been some small attraction between them, but as it stood, no understanding as they were, you see, from very different backgrounds. She, the close family of a successful merchant and he, well, only a mill employee. Not one of the ‘hands’ as they call them but not quite her equal either.”

“Yes father…” 

“According to Piggott, the lad was only accompanying her home from the station, as her chaperone had taken ill and he feared for her safety. But by the time the story had reached his own ears, it had been so embellished that it was tantamount to the worst sort of scandal. He confronted his cousin about the report, and she vehemently denied any impropriety. Naturally, he believed her…”

“And so he should,” observed Margaret, struggling to see a point anywhere on the immediate horizon. 

“Yes, but this is the thing, Margaret,” He tightened his grasp on her hands, “Even if there  _ was _ no impropriety, the story had become so inflated and exaggerated that the family could not escape the inevitable scandal. Miss… Miss Piggott, (as I imagine that is also her name), had no choice but to agree to a hasty engagement with the boy. They are to be married in September.”

Aha! There it was!

“Margaret, reputations are such fragile things! Women’s in particular. Perhaps I have been too lax, and have allowed you too much freedom.” He let go of her hands and looked away dejectedly. “It was always my aim that you and your brother be equipped to weigh the merits of what is good, against the importance of what is right. But it would seem that both my children share a talent for forgetting what is good and proper when there is justice or charity at stake.” He heaved a weary sigh, and glanced at Margaret from the corner of his eye.

“Father, I can assure you, nobody saw anything because there was nothing to see.” The lie came more quickly to her now, as if she were beginning to believe it herself. “And the Thorntons are well respected; he, a magistrate and she, well, a force of nature. It would not bode well for any of Milton’s society to make up stories about them.”

“Oh my dear,” said Mr Hale, reaching out to affectionately stroke her cheek, “I would not have you forced into some arrangement for the sake of your reputation, however much I may esteem John.” He pulled her into a warm embrace and, addressing the top of her head, whispered, “and I do not believe your mother’s heart could withstand anymore suffering on that score. She has already been brought so very low by Frederick’s mutiny and our own removal to this god-forsaken, gossip-ridden place.”

Margaret swallowed back the tears that her brother’s name had summoned. She pulled away just enough to look deep into her father’s eyes. 

“Do not worry yourself, father. I know what is expected of me. You have taught me what is right and proper, and I will bring no scandal to our door, especially where Mr Thornton is concerned. Besides,” she took a moment to gather her thoughts, “I am not even sure I want to be married. Milton and my life here are enough to keep me happily, if not gainfully employed. And then there is you and mother. I will always have my little family to take care of.”

Mr Hale clasped her head back to his chest, afraid she would see the water gathering in his eyes. How could he correct her on this subject? She was of age to be interested in men, but again her education in that area was probably sorely lacking. With an invalid mother, a prudish Parson of a father and a sailor brother all but lost at sea, what did she know of the world of love, of marriage and of men? Not very much, he concluded, but perhaps it was better this way. Maybe he could send her to London? That other Lennox boy seemed agreeable enough, and if young Edith’s teasing was anything to go by, he probably showed an interest. 

“Now, if that is all, I must be getting back to these drapes. I’m not convinced they will survive another washing this week, but they do seem to get sooty so very quickly here!” She stretched the pink and yellow fabric between her outstretched arms. “We never had such problems in Helstone!” she joked.

Mr Hale gazed at her wistfully. “No my dear, we didn’t.” He gifted her a small, contrite smile and left her to her work.

\---

It was late by the time Margaret retired for the night. She had finished the linens, dined with her father and spent the best part of an hour reading to her mother. She had always enjoyed good health and a lively disposition, but she found that her life here in Milton had a way of wearing down even her energetic constitution. Come the day’s end, her head scarcely hit the pillow before she was fast asleep upon it. 

But tonight she could not sleep. It was not that she wasn’t tired, no indeed, she felt keenly that particular fatigue that comes from keeping an electric storm of emotion in check for a prolonged period of time. The ache in her back from bending over the ironing was nothing compared to the knot in her stomach at all the untruths, or rather the single omission she had had to repeat several times over the past day and a half. With all the care she had taken to spare her beloved parents, she had neglected to offer herself adequate time to acknowledge her own opinion on the events. 

The dying summer sunlight waning at the window, and the uncharacteristically cool, summer draught wafting up through the house and under her door were quiet, calming invitations for her to assess her feelings. About what exactly, she wasn’t sure. She tried to retrace her steps throughout that afternoon, but found that several junctions elicited such strange sensations within her that she couldn’t continue. Oh dear! Perhaps she should try a different approach.

She sat up in bed and rested her weary back against the smooth wooden headboard. What were the facts? Thornton,  _ Mr _ Thornton had been injured. She had cared for him, as she would have any other human being. Higgins had helped her, and the doctor had been sent for. That much was clear and indisputable.

Then she had been alone with him, although she had not considered the implications of their isolation at the time. And she had nursed him to the best of her ability. Her mind recalled the warmth radiating from his body, his slight twitches at her touch, his lips slightly parted and the scent of him; sweat and soap, strong and masculine…

Suddenly she was transported. His lips on hers, that warm embrace. That look of complete adoration. The small, intimate moment suspended in space and time that belonged only to the two of them as he had freely helped himself to her. And she had not pulled away. 

A sharp pain from her lower lip jolted her back to reality. Her own teeth had drawn blood! What was this heat in her belly? This rapid beating of her heart? Although in the deepest, darkest, most delicious part of her she knew instinctively what this was; she had neither the experience, nor the vocabulary to put into words what she was feeling, let alone make any rational sense of it. This was Mr Thornton, after all. The unmistakable, implacable Mill Master of Milton, who had first impressed her with his kindness in assisting the procurement of their home, and then, so soon after, shocked her with his cruelty in beating a starving man who was not his equal. 

Granted, she had not had all the facts in her possession when she had formed her second opinion of his callousness and brutality. Her sense of fair play had driven her to make amends in person, once she had learned more of the circumstances in which he had acted. She would never agree with his methods, but conceded that she was in no position to judge him for his execution of the consequences he thought necessary for such a grievous misstep as smoking in a cotton mill. Something in her mind had shifted then. Her opinion of Mr Thornton and the great city he called home had changed as she became painfully aware of her own naiveté and prejudice regarding the industrial north. She had then resolutely determined to discover as much of the city, its people and its ways as possible, in order to form an original opinion of it on its merits alone. In doing so, she had found herself unconsciously taking the same approach to him, as if Milton and the man were one inseparable entity. 

Their exchanges had been polite, but earnest. She liked that about him, and the people here in general. There was no pretense, no meaning implied that was not explicitly expressed. When he conversed, as she had heard him do in the many evenings he had spent under her father’s tutelage, his words were measured and precise. She suspected that the usual serious demeanour that cast him as so distant and severe, was likely the product of concentration and circumspection rather than cruelty and calculation. His tragic history, as he had awkwardly related to them on one of those evenings, attested to her suspicions that he was undoubtedly a man of great moral character and valor, inasmuch as she understood the terms. 

She toyed nervously with the braid resting on her shoulder. It was no secret that their acquaintance had not been an easy one. Although there was much to be admired in the moral fibre of his character, the world he occupied and consequently, his manner, were harsh. With his disdain for the south, and his apparent indifference to the inequality and injustice that surrounded him, he displayed a talent for provoking Margaret to a righteous anger that she had often found herself struggling to quell. 

Margaret winced. She had been worrying the plait so roughly she had managed to undo the end of it and snarl the hair together into a tight knot. She sighed as she removed the scrap of ribbon that no longer served any purpose and set about pulling the tangle apart hair by hair. 

She flushed with shame as she remembered her conduct at the Thorntons’ dinner party. She had been reluctant to go, but her mother had insisted, and so she had determined to honour her father and his friend, Mr Bell, by being as agreeable company as she could manage. The evening had been pleasant enough, aside from a couple of lascivious glances in her direction from the same offender- a Mr Slickson, she was told; one of the other Mill Masters. By contrast, Mr Thornton, easily the youngest and most handsome man there, had come off quite the refined gentleman. She had been eager to shake his hand, and would have liked to continue one of their previous conversations pertaining to his moral duty as an employer, but they had been separated when dinner had been announced.

The knot was unravelled and her hair lay in thick, lazy waves across her shoulder and down her chest, covering her right breast. She cringed as she remembered the hot swell of indignant rage that had climbed from her core to her face, making her nose itch. How dare Mrs Thornton and her daughter talk down to her in such a way! When all she was doing was her christian duty to help a poor, starving mother feed her child. Her public rebuke of him had been impenitent, and she had hardly noticed the whole party silently watching their exchange until her father spoke up to divert the conversation, addressing Mrs Thornton on the subject of her place settings. She had felt the aching throb of shame and embarrassment settle in the pit of her stomach, and had willed the floor to open up beneath her and swallow her whole. She had been unspeakably rude, and knowing the brutishness he was capable of, she silently prepared herself for his inevitable (and justified) retribution.

But it had not come. His gaze had sought her out on several occasions during the evening and when their eyes met, it was their warmth, not their wrath, that had moved her. Upon her and her father’s departure he had even apologised for his mother and sister’s tactless behaviour. He had left her in no doubt of his capacity for kindness and gentility; and feeling no little shame for her own outspoken and unruly tongue. 

They had seen little of each other until the day of the riot. And the events of that day, she did not dare conjure up again in her mind, lest that irrepressible heat come upon her again. But what had happened? Why had he kissed her? And what would happen now? She slumped back down into the pillows. What was she to do?

There was no understanding between them. Nay, there weren’t even any feelings to speak of, as far as she knew. So what then? Her mind suddenly flashed with a memory of Henry, what had he said? “Encouragement… a London girl would have known… not to  _ encourage _ .” She shook her head, as if to shake his unpleasant memory from her mind.  _ Encourage- _ that was the key. Somehow, she must have  _ encouraged _ Mr Thornton- how else could she explain this good, albeit a little rough, man taking the liberty of her lips so very easily? But it had surely been her mistake, and she would have to remedy it. She would have to ensure she gave him no more encouragement, lest he truly begin to misconstrue her character.

“But… but what if he already does?!” she gasped out loud to herself, horrified, the question summoning a brand new wave of heated panic to crash over her. She had not thought of that! She did not dare speculate on what a man would think of a woman giving herself so easily to such an improper embrace. And who knows what conclusions a coarse milton man such as himself might draw? It was too much! 

There were no two ways about it. The kiss had happened, and that, she could not change. His opinion of her had undoubtedly been affected by their encounter, but in that too, she was powerless. She summoned as much courage as she could muster, and through a stifled yawn and drooping eyelids, swore a determined oath to herself. Come the morrow she would endeavour to give the man no more  _ ‘encouragement’ _ , lest he mistake her for a woman of loose morals. And she would no longer think on the matter, lest she find herself drowning in the uncharted and raging sea of feelings that, she suspected, had already begun to take root in her heart. 

  
  



	3. Repercussions

“We have already discussed this, Mother.” Thornton exhaled, “It would likely be very complicated, not to mention cruel to attempt to locate, let alone further punish the offenders.”

“But surely an example must be made, John,” insisted his mother, “a message must be sent! What, would you have the hands believe they may go about lobbing bricks at their masters with impunity? That blow to your head must’ve caused more damage than Donaldson imagined!”

John smiled, a small, tired smile. Her dry, laughless humour signalled the beginning of her surrender. He did not like to argue with his mother, and it felt as though they had done little else of late. Although that was not entirely her fault.

After Margaret’s departure from the millhouse, he had fallen into broken, fitful sleep for much of the first day, his dreams filled with appealing, bucolic scenery centred around its appealing, bucolic protagonist. Then the pain had overwhelmed him, and his dreams had turned into a nightmarish mess of his father, mill fires and the snarling hunger that had haunted his adolescence. He had jolted himself awake, dazed and confused at finding himself in his nightshirt, in his bedchamber, in what appeared to be the middle of the next day. He had roared for his mother; cursed the boom of his own voice; leapt out of bed and swiftly collapsed onto the floor. Then the doctor had been sent for and had stayed long enough for John to rouse and hear the prognostic from the man himself. 

The doctor had insisted on a full week’s bedrest, or at least until the dizziness subsided, along with a whole host of bitter concoctions and crystallized solutions to be swallowed and inhaled and rubbed on his brow. John had fought and protested every step of the way, rising determinedly on the second and third mornings in an attempt to demonstrate his wellness, but soon the blackness had overwhelmed him and he had finally conceded to staying in bed. But he had been foul-tempered and demanding, his anxiety over the repercussions of the strike aggravated by the pain. He had insisted on being allowed to half-dress in his breeches and undershirt; and had his mother or Williams bring the day’s paperwork to his bedside so that he could still manage the mill’s progress, now that the the strike had come naught and the hands were clamouring to get back to work. 

He recalled very little of the events of that fateful day, except that his dreams had been more vivid and pleasant than he had ever known. He vaguely remembered happening upon Miss Hale in the foyer… she had come to ask to borrow something. A hot water bottle? No, that wasn’t it. A kettle? Surely they had one of their own… Argh, he couldn’t remember. No matter, she was there and she wanted something and there couldn’t have been a worse time. 

He was loath to send her away, or to leave her unattended. Their exchanges had recently taken a more amiable turn, and he had allowed himself the luxury of collecting pleasant thoughts of her; the honesty in her regard as she had apologized for refusing his first handshake; her blush as his fingers had brushed against hers when she served him tea; the sympathy in her eyes as she had enquired about his pocket watch; the cut of that dress as it clung to the prettiest parts of her on the night of the dinner party…

But the mill was in danger. The innocent irishmen,  _ his _ innocent irishmen she had called them, were disoriented, and terrified out of their wits. He had sent Fanny away, and mother to the cellars, in the eventuality that things take a turn for the worst. Then he had waited. And she had appeared. 

She had exhibited such extraordinary fearlessness in commanding him to go out and speak to the crowd. In truth his pride had been not a little piqued, but he had also believed her to be right. It was not honourable to skulk in the relative safety and comfort of the millhouse while the rioters bayed like dogs for his blood just outside his door. And yet she had told him that  _ they _ were not his enemy, nor he, theirs. He had begun to see what she saw, that although their viciousness and violence was inexcusable, they were, as she put it,  _ driven mad with hunger _ . 

Yet right there, in between his stepping out in front of Miss Hale to face the rioters, and his rude awakening in his bed almost two days later, hung a hazy, shady nothingness that he just could not make out. The feeling was most unsettling. He vaguely remembered Miss Hale’s gentle voice, rising to a higher pitch than he had previously heard. She sounded alarmed. And there was another… a scotsman. No, that must have been Donaldson. There was certainly a Darkshireman, and a coarse one at that. But here, in his house? Who could it have been?

He had waited until his mother left the room before asking the doctor if he could explain his alarming lapses in memory. He did not wish to worry her, sensible of the fact that she, and everything they had worked so hard for, were dependent on his vigorous health and stalwart constitution. Dr Donaldson had reassured him that his symptoms were in keeping with the injury he had sustained. They would wear off, and although he might never clearly recall the events of those two days, the blow had struck a nerve very near to his brain, and he was lucky to have been spared the worst. John had been satisfied, and had tried to be more amenable ever since.

“Are you hungry?” the question jolted him back to the present. “You’ve barely eaten a thing today, and the doctor says you must get your strength up.” 

John stopped to consider her question. The laudenum succeeded in relieving most of the pain, yet his thoughts were still muddled, as though his mind were filled with cotton fluff. Such a basic question did not warrant such long minutes of deep reflection. He said the first thing that came to mind.

“Yes mother, I believe I am. I will not be pressing charges. Is there any veal left?” 

Mrs Thornton looked at her son quizzically. It was unlike him to speak in such a disorderly fashion; jumping from one subject to another. Her John was meticulous in everything he did, from his grooming to his accounting to the very words he chose. She knew this, because she herself had drilled the quality into him. After his father’s suicide she knew his life would be one of hardship and struggle, but she saw great promise in him, the same promise that had drawn her to her George Thornton- that driven, generous man. She could not risk losing her only son to the same sort of tragic error of judgement, and so had raised him to conduct himself with a great deal of circumspection in every area of life. 

It was armed with this certainty of her son’s faultless character that she resolutely determined to lay the blame for the impropriety she had observed, squarely at Miss Hale’s door. In spite of much unwavering determination and feminine wiles, no girl of their acquaintance had ever succeeded in turning John’s head before the arrival of this saucy, southern slip of a thing. Within a matter of weeks she had had her poor John changing his clothes twice in one day (for tea no less!) fawning over philosophers and poetry, and entertaining her every query and criticism with regards to the mill. She had privately attacked him and his colleagues, accusing them of ungentlemanly cruelty in matters that she knew nothing about. She had subjected him to the public undermining of his methods and defamation of his character- and all this under his own roof, at his own dinner table at that! 

The lack of reprisal on his part on the night of that infamous dinner party had not gone unnoticed by his mother, nor by any of the other guests, she was sure. It would not do for John to be found so easily subjugated by the charms of some pretty, haughty novelty, no matter how high she may fancy herself above the rest of Milton. Not so high, it would seem, that she would pass over a chance at the clear advantage that the wealth and position of this mere  _ merchant _ - _ manufacturer _ could offer her and her impoverished family. Financially reduced and friendless in an alien city, Miss Hale had evidently set her sights on the biggest catch she could find, and was determined to secure him for herself, before anyone else got their claws in him. She was hardly the first girl to attempt such a feat.

No, Hannah Thornton knew her son, and she knew women. She knew the wistful, unrequited looks he received when they were out in society or town. She heard the attempts to tease and flirt; and the shrill peals of laughter that rang out a little too quickly in response to one so sorely ill-versed in the art of polite drollery. She saw the batting of eyelashes, the fluttering of fans and the tending of corseted figures towards the one, irresistible centre of attraction that held them all entranced. Her John was not just the most handsome and eligible man in Milton; he was also one of the wealthiest, and most powerful; not merely in his position, but in the very fibre of his person. His tall, broad stature was both massive and intimidating, and his movements were graceful and measured; revealing the confidence expected of a man far more advanced in years and experience than he actually was. The deep, thunderous melody of his voice, seldom raised above an eloquent rumble, had the singular power of holding his listeners spellbound to whatever carefully considered thought he had judged worth putting to words. 

When combined with the economy of his speech, the exactness of his ideas and forthright execution of his decisions had set him apart amongst the other Mill Masters of Milton. Although he was by far the youngest, his fellow mill owners were long in the habit of seeking his counsel in most subjects that affected the running of their respective mills. More often than not, they would defer to his judgement on this matter of trade or that. Upon hearing that he had been hit during the riot, an nauseating unease had crept over them and cast a shadow over their meetings at the local gentlemans’ club that had been held daily in the aftermath of the strike. The masters were worried. They did not know if this assault would prove to quell or excite the mob’s bloodlust; if the hands would feel embarrassed or emboldened by their success in striking down one who was so representative of their grievances and subjugation.

One certainty remained: in receiving such a blow, Thornton had somehow managed to dissolve the strike, at least for the present. Most of the hands had slunk back to the mills, restless and frustrated, to claim their jobs. The masters had little recourse except to accept them, as orders had to be filled and time and expense lost had to be accounted for. But they were still unsure of how to proceed. They had seen how quickly they could be brought to their knees; one whisper of strike and the whole city might find itself at a standstill once more, and worse off than it had been in the first instance. Milton’s cotton hung in the balance between the iron will of its masters and the foolish grit of its workers- for that is what they considered it to be: foolishness. Fools to think the masters could be bent to their will; fools to bite the very hand that so meagrely fed them; fools to resort to such abject violence against one so superior in both station and power to themselves. 

But come the week’s end, when Thornton sat with his eyes trained on his half-drunk tumbler of brandy and listened to the masters’ nervous exultation at the workers’ humiliation, it was not foolishness that came to mind when he remembered their haggard faces. He recalled their ghastly appearances, their desperate cries, the blinding madness of hunger in their eyes. No, if they were as fools it was because the strike, the masters, the mills had somehow made it so. His head throbbed, as it had been wont to do of late. Hamper’s grating pitch regaled the company with yet another account of his clever trickery in regards to his workers; how he had promised to consider a pay rise, then refused at the very last minute, taking a distinctly perverse pleasure in dashing their hopes and stoking their grievances. Such abject cruelty. Miss Hale was right. There were no gentlemen here.

“What’ll ye’ do with yer Irish, Thornton?” said Matthews, cutting into his silent remonstrations.

Thornton looked up, his eyes taking in each of the six pot-bellied, powerful Milton masters. He knew the attack had given them cause for concern- not for him personally; they would have happily seen him knocked down dead if it meant they could somehow acquire his mill and assets, and the position that came with it. But he wondered if his injury had served to enlighten them, as it had himself, as to how dependent the two opposing sides were on one another, each with its own distinct ability to completely cripple the other; each with its own exact method of robbing the other of their livelihood. In the long hours he had spent confined to his bed he had pondered the matter from all angles, and had come to one, of several, irrefutable conclusions.

If the strike had been prolonged, his business and livelihood would have undoubtedly suffered. Yet he knew he could count on a sturdy roof over his head, some money put aside in the bank and the means to go on living in the same easy manner for quite some time. His mother, sister and himself would have eaten their fill, rested and entertained themselves in much the same fashion as they had done up until that moment, and would have had the luxury of time to settle their affairs, empty the millhouse and move into smaller, and only slightly less comfortable accommodations. Thornton himself would have been certain to procure a suitable, if slightly reduced, position of employment in one of the other businesses in town. They would have had to endure the disgrace and humiliation of his failure, but without the oppressive weight of poverty that suffocated his workers in its clawed grasp. 

He would not have to suffer the sight of his mother begging for work in the street, nor his sister’s ample frame wasting away for lack of food. He would not have to sacrifice his midday or even evening meal so that the women in his care could eat. They would be safe, dry and attended by a reduced, but probably still sufficient number of household staff. They would enjoy their health and the simple satisfaction that only having one’s family nearby and thriving could procure. They would not be kept from their rest or occupations by the disease and infirmity that plagued so many of those who had worked in the mills from their earliest age. 

No, the interdependent nature of the relationship between master and millworker began to present itself clearly to him during his confinement. But the fallout of an event such as the strike was clearly far more dreadful for one side than for the other. The hands would lose everything, where he and the other masters would only lose in part. And Thornton had not forgotten, for it was not so long ago, that he himself had been at the mercy of an employer, scraping and saving to keep his mother sheltered and his baby sister fed. He was coming to see that Miss Hale, and her dear father, might not have been so ignorant in their assessment that he and his workers were not so very different after all. 

He had yet to answer the man’s question. He found himself tiring more easily, and becoming more easily distracted since the blow, but even he was conscious of the fact that he had delayed a little too long in responding. Silence had fallen across the mahogany table, as the men waited with baited breath for their unofficial leader to shed some light on his intentions. It was, after all,  _ his _ Irishmen,  _ his _ riot, and  _ his _ injury that had broken the strike and brought about this state of uneasy recovery in the mills…

“I will keep them on,” he began, addressing all the men at once, “those that remain, that is. After the riot and some hostility from the locals, a few of them asked to be returned to Ireland. But I brought them here with the promise of work so work they shall have, no matter what the hands have to say about it...”

“Serves them right!” interjected Hamper, to a chorus of enthusiastic agreement from the others, “the brutes! Let Paddy come and have their places. I’ll reckon they’ll think twice about quitting work the next time they…”

“I said I would give them work,” interrupted Thornton, his low rumble silencing their jeering approbation “I did not say they would replace my Milton workers.”

The masters stared at Thornton, confusion written on some faces, disbelief playing across others. With the global cotton market being what it was, now was not the time for any of the mills to take on new workers, and very likely unskilled and untrained ones at that. What was he playing at? Reading their expressions, but conscious that he owed them no particular explanation, he elaborated in his usual, matter-of-fact way.

“If the hands are willing to put aside their resentment and work for me, I will welcome them back into the mill and we will go on as we did before, in most respects. I have a duty to the irish in bringing them here, so far from their homes, with the promise of work. I am not a man to shirk my duty, whatever cost I might incur for myself. I can only hope that we can catch up with the orders that have been delayed and receive payment in a timely manner.”

It was several, long minutes before any of the masters spoke. When they did, three or four of them spoke at once, their protestations colliding noisily into one another. Thornton winced as the cacophony of darkshire accents tugged painfully at the area between his ears and temples. 

“What?! No consequences for the strikers?”

“Have ye’ gone quite mad?! What about sanctions?”

“Your hands would sooner slit their throats than train up paddy in his own trade!”

“How’ll ye’ stop them saving up against another strike?”

Thornton looked down at his lap and shook his head, partly to relieve the tension, partly in disappointment. He could hardly have expected otherwise, really. If anything, his observation of their vindictive fury confirmed his hypothesis: the same sense of injustice that had animated the angry mob on that day now possessed the spirits of each one of the men sat before him here. But he would not indulge their outrage. The humiliation, and near starvation had been punishment enough for the strikers, and it did not suit his recent enlightenment regarding the balance of their relationship to further antagonise the workers, or their precious union. 

“There will be no sanctions on strikers, although I daresay I won’t take Neale back on, (should he come asking), what with him being one of the union leaders. How the hands choose to spend their pay is still none of my business. I wouldn’t take kindly to someone telling me where to spend my money, and so I won’t start telling them where to spend theirs.”

He rose to leave, the throbbing in his temples, and the stuffy air of the “gentlemen’s’” lounge having become quite unbearable. He would not attempt to convince them of the merit of his own, personal revelations on the matter- the subject was still shifting and settling inside his own mind. But he would invite them, as was his duty as a member of the Milton Masters’ Guild, to entertain a notion that, he believed, would prove to be to the benefit of all, masters and workers alike. 

“I have made my decision on the matter, and will speak no more of it. But I would caution you, my fellow cotton lords, against further aggravating the situation with fines or restrictions on union participation, or the like. I believe it would be beneficial for all of us masters if we could attempt to bleed them of their bitterness, rather than fuel it.” 

With the briefest nod of his head he was gone, and the masters were left steeping in their own brandy-laced bewilderment. Thornton had always been a man apart from them in his temperament, as well as honesty, integrity and power, but there now lay between them a deep, cavernous trench filled with something they could not put their finger on. Madness, Hamper thought to himself. Some deceit or trickery, suspected Slickson. Not one of them recognised it for what it was, foetal as it was in its development: moral conviction. 

As he made his way back from the club to the mill, Thornton also found himself engrossed in the assessment of the sudden distance he too felt between himself and the rest of the Masters’ Guild. It did not make him uneasy, so sure was he in the moral righteousness and, incidentally, sound business merit in the shift of his attitudes towards his mill and  _ all  _ those who depended on it, not just himself and his family. 

He turned the sharp corner onto Marlborough Street. The brisk walk, made shorter by the length of his stride, had done wonders to dissolve the pain that stretched between his temples. He had been pleased to find that exercise and activity actually seemed to make the headaches better, and fully embraced the fact by throwing himself into his work with more vigour and determination than ever. The mill’s survival hung in a precarious balance between delayed orders, deferred payments, dwindling resources and restless workmen, but he was not a man to shy away from a challenge, no matter the magnitude. Some deep, primal part of him even relished it, particularly in view of his recent, internal revelations of how things could be improved in the future, for both himself and his workers. The hope was to him like the breaking dawn creeping its way promisingly across the floor before flooding the whole room with light, and ushering in a brand new day. 

As he passed through the familiar wooden gates, now repaired from the damage sustained during the riot, his thoughts turned to the one he had come to consider as his muse; the inspiration behind this new well of determination and fresh ideas. He knew enough of his own character to admit that it was not any great generosity of his own spirit that had sparked this marked change in stance. Nor was it entirely the fruit of his interviews with Mr Hale, fascinating and informative as they had been, filled with discussions of philosophy, morality and religion as they pertained to the business and bustle of Milton. No, it was none of these. It was Miss Hale. It was, utterly and entirely, Miss Hale.

Even in the clutches of his undeniable attraction for her, inflamed and intensified by his many recent and gratifying dreams, (some so real he could almost swear they were more memory than dream!); he had not yet landed on an adequate designation within which to encase these new and tender feelings. Attraction, admiration, desire… he had been a grown man long enough to recognise the symptoms of  _ those _ feelings. But there was something else that had taken root deep in his heart, in the part he guarded most jealously, and to which no other had ever been granted admittance. It was a keen fascination, bordering on obsession, with the inner workings of her mind and the development of her opinions that had been, in the past, so diametrically opposed to his own. 

He had developed the habit, since their earliest acquaintance, of subconsciously asking himself what Miss Hale would be thinking in such and such an instance, in this circumstance or that. When he was at leisure, he wondered what she would make of the latest story he had read in the paper. When he inspected the Mill’s output, he pondered whether she held any informed preference for cotton or linen. When he sat down for his evening meal, his mind would seek refuge from Fanny’s inane conversation in ruminations over Margaret’s stance on beef or lamb; or her view on taking a glass of wine at dinner. And his deliberations of more significant issues tended in the same direction: what had  _ she _ seen when she looked out on that sea of desperation and defiance? What would  _ her _ reaction have been to the act of violence and the events that had lead up to it? And, most importantly, what would she do; or what would she have had him do next? Revenge, retribution against the perpetrators? Surely not. Hers was a kinder, more compassionate way. 

And so he had incorporated these approximations of his muse’s opinion on the matter, combining them with his own methodological evaluation of his current situation, and the potential repercussions of any course of action. This strategy made him feel closer to Miss Hale, even though she was undoubtedly unaware of being almost constantly at the foreground of his thoughts, or the background of his conclusions. In the past she had alluded to the fact that she did not consider him a gentleman, and it had stung. But he began to feel, as his dreams and determination built her up in his mind, that there might just be the smallest hope of her looking on him and his current actions in an approving light. And where there was approval, was there not room for bolder, brighter, and more delightful feelings to grow? 

He crossed the threshold of the millhouse, wincing as the sour sound of Fanny’s tone-deaf rendition of Bennett’s  _ Sonata _ rang out over the silence of the empty mill. It was well past six, and dinner would be served soon. He could hardly wait! The day had been full, challenging, and distinctly devoid of refreshment of any kind. But most of all he treasured the anticipation of the time when he could retire to his private rooms and be alone with his thoughts. There he would eagerly await the arrival of his muse, arms outstretched and quite informally attired, as she beckoned him into the most pleasurable depths of sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for all the reads, follows and feedback! Please, keep the comments coming, I welcome all of them so don't hold back!
> 
> I discovered I had taken the mistaken liberty of dubbing John's father "James" when the book clearly states his name was "George". Apologies! It's been edited now.
> 
> And lastly many thanks to AvidNorthAndSouthFan for her suggestion that I add a little more worker-master angst into the mix, which does make for a meatier, more well-rounded story. Let me know what you think...


	4. Repentance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. My aim is to post every week, either on a Sunday or Wednesday. I have also edited the previous three chapters ever so slightly. Please let me know what you think!

It was with a heavy tread that Nicholas Higgins made his way up the winding Princeton alleys. Although his face gave nothing away, as was his Darkshire wont, his mind was bubbling over with the recollection of the events that had passed in the month since the riot. The strike had broken, but his personal troubles had only begun. None of the masters would take him on, but that much was only to be expected. He had some small amount of coin put by in anticipation of such times, but when his brother-in-law, John Boucher’s corpse had washed up on the shores of the canal, he knew that what little he had would have to feed the six little mouths that that lily-livered recreant had left behind. 

In truth it was not just a sense of familial duty that propelled him to take his young nephews and nieces under his wing. He also carried a heavy shroud of guilt. Unbeknownst to few but himself and his late sister-in-law (who had had the pusillanimity to pass away herself within days of her husband’s suicide), John Boucher had lead the cry to arms against Marlborough Mills and the Irish concealed within. It had been Boucher who, upon the emergence of his Master from behind the gentle Miss Margaret, had gathered a few choice stones from the ground and pressed them into the palms of the younger, more impressionable lads crushed all around him. It had been Boucher’s challenge to Thornton regarding the irish that had risen over the crowd. And it had been upon Boucher’s urging, and insistent prodding in the ribs, that the young Price boy, not yet fifteen years of age, had hurled his missive at the master’s indomitable form. 

Upon leaving Marlborough Mills, Higgins had lost no time in tracking down his treacherous brother-in-law, who had been one of the first to flee. He found him late that evening, cowering under a bridge, bottle in hand and incoherent wails of regret tearing from his chapped lips. If he hadn’t had upwards of ten years experience of the man’s theatrics, Higgins might have felt sorry for the louse. But as it was, he felt nothing but disgust. 

Boucher had always been a vicious man, prone to drink and violence, and always envious of Higgins’ position in the union and the respect that came with it. With the arrival of the irish he had seen his chance to become a leader of men, but not in the passive, diplomatic manner in which his brother-in-law and his comrades sought to go about it. He wanted retribution- for himself and for the others who would undoubtedly turn to him in reverence and gratitude once the masters had been made to pay for their crimes. His thoughtless ambition and bloodlust overpowered him, and it was only when the enormity of his actions and their consequences dawned on him that he had escaped by the only means he knew.

Higgins had rebuked and reviled him, shoving him against the damp brick wall and spelling out the consequences of his actions for the strike, the workers and the union. He had ordered him to give himself up, certain that Thornton would be eager to press charges against his attackers. He had cursed him, and lamented his poor wife and children for having such a reckless lunatic for a father. As he spat his revulsion he did not suspect the chord his words would strike in the drunkard’s addled mind. He threatened to give him up to the union, then released him, feeling equally satisfied and frustrated by their altercation. He stalked off back home, hurling a few more insults over his shoulder for good measure. 

Theirs would be the last conversation John Boucher would have on this earth. When his body was discovered and brought back to Princeton, Higgins felt keenly that it must have been his own harsh words that drove this wild, weak man to such a miserable end. As his late wife, (god rest her soul), had often reminded him, not all men had been forged of the same steel that he was. Her wretched sister’s husband was a prime example. Still, Higgins knew he had to take responsibility; for his actions as much as for his late wife’s memory. But his hopes, his money, and the children’s gaunt bodies were already wearing thin. He was desperate. He went to the only place he could think of. 

The housekeeper, a large, red-faced lady, let him in begrudgingly and lead him to the kitchen. There she forbade him to move or breathe or, (heaven forbid!) _touch_ anything. She appraised him one last time, a look of acute displeasure cripsing her porcine face, before leaving to inform her young mistress of his arrival. He heard voices raised above, followed by the pattering of footsteps, some laborious, some light, rushing down the creaky staircase until materialising with their owners in the doorway. 

Miss Margaret rushed forward to greet her friend warmly, and her father followed close behind, hands outstretched in a gesture of welcome and condolence for the poor man’s loss. Tea was offered and prepared and, after some coaxing, Higgins laid out his current predicament for his friend’s advice. He was prepared to do anything to see the children taken care of, even if it meant leaving his beloved Darkshire to find work, even at a lower wage. 

“Oh no, Nicholas! There would be nothing for you in the south!” cried Margaret, distressed by her friend’s desperation. “You would find it so dull, with nothing to fight for and nobody to fight with. Besides, who would look after the children while you were away?”

“Margaret is right,” added Mr Hale, “it would not be prudent to attempt such a journey without the certainty of finding work before winter sets in. No, I cannot say that I would advise it, however much I wish I could be of assistance.”

Higgins sighed. The Hales and their southern promise had been his final option. He would have no choice but to put the children in the workhouse, and Lord knew what would become of them there. 

“I wonder…” said Margaret, interrupting his thoughts and pressing two fingers to her lips pensively, “I mean, perhaps... Nicholas, have you thought of applying to Marlborough Mills?”

Higgins scoffed, choking a little on his tea. 

“Aye, I bin’ t’ Thornton’s Mill...”

“And?”

“And nowt, miss Margaret. Oh t’ overseer, that Williams feller, was kind enough t’ hear me out, but ‘im as good as told me I was wastin’ me time, that Thornton’d sooner set fire t’ ‘is own mill than see th’ likes of me workin’ in it. I dint’ get no further than t’ gates.”

“Oh.”

Margaret turned her gaze to the window, turning things over in her mind. The matter felt unresolved to her. Had Nicholas been given the opportunity of an interview with Mr Thornton himself, she suspected that the master would have surely been inclined to hear, if not act, in the poor man’s favour. There was a pragmatic sort of kindness hidden carefully beneath that cold, marble exterior. Kindness, compassion, humanity…

_Tenderness, passion, softness…_

“But you did not speak with Mr Thornton himself,” she pressed, snatching herself back from that heated precipice. “You did not meet with him face to face, and lay the facts of the situation before him as you have, so clearly, to us here today.”

“No miss, I weren’t given t’opportunity. Though I don’t think t’ outcome’d have bin much different.”

“Nicholas, I think you should go back to Marlborough Mills,” said Margaret resolutely. “Speak with Mr Thornton himself. Tell him you had no part in the riot; remind him of how you were on hand for him when he was injured. He is a thinking man, a decent man, not unlike yourself. I am sure he will listen to you.” She paused, waiting for his response, “He is not like the other masters.”

Nicholas looked down at his bare feet, the condition imposed by the housekeeper on his admittance upstairs. Miss Margaret was a good sort, but very young, very naive. She did not know the masters and their ruthless ways. Hers had been a sheltered life, full of love and affirmation. He knew her heart was firmly on the side of the workers, but he had noticed a warmth in her attentions to the master when he had been hurt. He would not disabuse her of her optimism now. Besides, it was hardly as if he had anything to lose. 

“Alright, Miss Margarent, I’ll try Thornton’s once again. But I don’t expec’ anything’ll come of it. Whatever assistance I bin’ t’ th’ master that day’ll be nothing t’ ‘im in light o’ me position in th’ union.”

“No, Nicholas, I am sure you are mistaken. How could Mr Thornton be anything but grateful towards someone who helped him when he was most in need of it? He cannot be as ungenerous as you think.”

Higgins scoffed again, and slurped down the rest of his tea. 

“Per’aps you are right, miss. We shall see.” He offered her a lopsided smirk, the closest thing to a smile he could manage. He thanked his friends gruffly for their time, and ambled down to the kitchen to retrieve his boots, before taking his leave. 

\---

In another parlour across town Mr Thornton’s behaviour was under the scrutiny of a very different woman entirely. Since the riot, Hannah Thornton had watched her son like a hawk. Her concern was partly for his health, but stemmed chiefly from her need to detect any sign that his partiality to that Hale girl had grown. She had flung herself at him so very wantonly, and John was, afterall, a grown man with a grown man’s needs. She wasn’t actually certain how much of his wits he had had about him at the time. His attachment to her could not be denied, but he had yet to make her an offer, and had given no indication that he planned on doing so anytime soon. Mrs Thornton clung to the hope that she still had time to intervene, but in the back of her mind lay the unnerving certainty that once John’s heart had truly been stolen away, the wildest of horses could never bring it back to her.

It was with this intent that she attempted to coax his thoughts away from Miss Hale and onto other matters. The mill, the fallout of the strike, finding Fanny a suitable husband… but she found that nothing held his attention with the same immutable gravity as it did before. He still listened to her concerns and counsel, but would disappear in his own thoughts, an uncharacteristic ghost of a smile often tugging at his lips. At times his replies alarmed her- no sanctions for union members; talk of some worker productivity scheme; even suggesting Fanny should only marry for love! No, she would have to find a way; some other girl perhaps? Anyone but this penniless, southern sprite who had bewitched her son, body and soul. 

“I heard Mr Latimer’s daughter is soon to return from Switzerland.”

John looked up from his letter. It was unlike mother to take an interest in other people’s affairs.

“Mrs Foster says she’s quite the fine young lady, what with her having completed her finishing school.”

John smirked. “I daresay that was the object, mother. Otherwise they’d ‘ve asked for their money back.”

Mrs Thornton clicked her tongue, training her eyes on the stitch in front of her. John teased and joked far more than she was comfortable with these days. Although you could hardly tell if you did not know him. To the outside world his brow was as stern and his gait as impassive as ever. 

“It would be a good match for us, John. I seem to recall her catching your eye when last she was over. When we dined there, with the Fosters...” She paused to glance up at him. “And such a close connection to Mr Latimer couldn’t be owt but advantageous to the mill.” 

John stared at his mother for a moment before turning back to the half-finished letter lying on the desk. He hardly knew what to think, except that he wanted to laugh. He knew how excruciating such a topic must be for his mother, but he could not believe how mistaken she was. Miss Latimer, _Anne_ Latimer caught his eye? Yes, it was possible, she was a pleasant enough girl with a fine figure, and his height did afford him an agreeable vantage point on the latest, revealing, European fashions she was usually decked in. Perhaps she had caught his eye, but that was all. She had no claim to any other part of him, least of all his heart. 

He rose with his gaze still fixed on his desk. “I’d best get back to the mill. I can finish my letters there.” He stopped to place an affectionate hand on her shoulder, “I should be back tonight, Mother, though I might be late.” 

Once concealed in the darkness of the hall he let out a quiet chuckle. Miss Latimer indeed! Didn’t Mother, who knew him better than anyone else in the world, know where his heart lay? How it had been stolen from under their very noses and spirited away to the other side of town where it was being held hostage by a most agreeable captor? His thoughts turned once more to Miss Hale: what was she doing? What was she thinking? What was she wearing?

He could hardly stand this intensity of feeling, and yet simultaneously could not get enough of it. This feral rush of passion, this raging tangle of emotion that coloured his bleary days in the mill and fueled his wild imaginings at night. He had seen women, he had noticed women, but he was certain he had never felt this way before.

Before Miss Hale, there had only been Caroline, the draper’s niece, who had painted his cheeks with their first, faint blush and loosed a small flight of winged insects into the pit of his stomach as he worked alongside her at her uncle’s shop. A bonny, effervescent girl who was always pleased to share her smiles and her noonday meal with ‘her little John’. She had even kissed him once, a chaste but curious peck on his eager lips that had taken him by surprise and made him feel quite giddy. At fifteen he already towered over her, even though she was almost four years his senior, and often made him feel like a small child unable to express himself. Then a certain, eligible Mr Ross had stopped in Milton on business, and had been so impressed by her dimpled smiles and cheery disposition that he had almost immediately swept her away to scotland to make her his wife and the queen of his growing mechanical empire. Coincidentally, much of the new machinery that currently held the mill hostage, had been produced by the McCloud & Ross Manufacturing Company of Dunfermline. 

But he had been just a boy, and now he was a man. A man with means, and a man with needs. Ill-versed as he was in matters of the heart, he felt certain that the day was imminent when he could confess his true feelings to Miss Hale, and begin the rest of his life with her by his side. True, she had had her reservations and prejudices when she had first arrived, but he had detected a distinct softening on her part, and he was sure that his deference to (his interpretation of) her thoughts and sensibilities would only help build him up in her esteem. Surely she could see that he was nothing like the other masters, with all their cruelty and roughness. 

His short walk to the office was interrupted by Williams materialising by his side. 

“Excuse me, master, but that man Higgins is back again. ‘e’s askin’ to speak with yer”

“Higgins?!” John shot a withering glower in the direction of the mill gate. “What can ‘e want?”

“Work, master. ‘e came by a few days ago, but I sent ‘im off then. ‘e says ‘e must speak with ye’ in person.”

John looked at Williams, who seemed perplexed, although he couldn’t think why. 

“I can’t stop now. I have some letters to write then I must go to the bank. Talk to ‘im yourself or send ‘im home.”

“Yes master.”

When John emerged from his office almost two hours later, he spotted Higgins’ hunched figure in the archway. Where was Williams? No matter, he’d remonstrate with him later. 

“I need t’ talk with ye’ measter!”

“Can’t stop now. I have a meeting.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Oh you will, will yer?” Thornton stopped abruptly in his tracks, turning to fix Higgins with one of his iciest stares. He startled inwardly when he saw its match in the determined depths of the worker’s ringed eyes. He found himself at a loss...

“Very well,” he ventured finally, “If ye’ still ‘ere by the time I come back, I will hear whatever it is ye’ ‘ave to say.”

“Thank you, measter. I’ll be ‘ere.”

True to his word Higgins was still keeping his hunched vigil under the archway when Thornton returned several hours later. His meetings at the bank had not gone the way he had hoped, although Mr Latimer had been congenial enough, given the circumstances. But his discussion with the masters at the club had been fruitless and frustrating, the subject of the strike and its aftermath being far from exhausted. He was in a black mood as he crossed the threshold of Marlborough Mills, and seeing the embodiment of his grievances in the form of a notorious union lackey only exacerbated his foul humour.

“What, you still ‘ere?” he tossed over his shoulder as he brushed past. “You’d better come in then.”

Thornton took his time rearranging the papers on his desk. He meticulously jotted down a reminder of the tasks he needed to complete, and some points that would require deliberation with his overseer later that evening. He sorted a handful of letters into two distinct piles, then looked up at the man he hoped his contemptuous procrastination had shrivelled down to as small a size as he deserved. 

_Damn him,_ he thought, _damn him, his strike and his union. If it weren’t for him we wouldn’t be in this mess._

“So,” he began, his voice as smooth as butter, “What do you want with me, _sir_?”

Higgins took in a deep breath. He had rehearsed what he had to say several times over, and was thankful for the steel in his backbone that allowed him to stand undaunted before the formidable Master of Marlborough Mills. As clearly as he could, he laid out his reasons for needing work, as well as his attributes as a worker, and a promise not to disappoint, or cause mischief. Thornton heard none of it.

“If I _were_ to believe you… can’t say that I’m inclined to, how would I know you would not cause trouble? We have enough to be worrying about here at Marlborough Mills without setting a live firebrand like you in amongst the cotton.”

“I promise ye’, I’m an honourable man- I’d give ye’ fair warning, should the’ ever be any need. I’d even take a paycut, if t’were t’ only way for ye’ to be sure of my…”

“What, ye’d take wages less than others?! And you set yer rioters on our Irish for doing the same? Strange sorta’ honour you got there! And them tryin’ to feed their families n’ all. You’re wasting your time,” he sneered “I’ll not give ye’ work”

Higgins’ felt the knot in his stomach tighten. His concern was not for himself, he had known the masters long enough to expect no less than the treatment he had received. He worried for the children, whose survival depended on the kindness Miss Margaret seemed to think existed in this man. Hmm… perhaps that was the key…

“Forgive me then, measter, for takin’ up so much o’ yer precious time,” he said, fixing Thornton with a detached stare. “I wouldn’ta bothered yer, if t’weren’t for a woman what spoke well of ye’. Said she thought the’ was a kindness about ye’...”

“Tell ‘er to mind ‘er own business, and to leave me to mind mine.”

“Very good measter. I’ll be sure t’ tell ‘er. I thank yer for yer courtesy,” he added, not a little facetiously, “I bid ye’ good day.”

As the day darkened into evening Thornton could not shake the feeling that something was amiss. The foulness of his earlier mood had dissipated and he was overcome with a sinking feeling that he had treated that man Higgins with more discourtesy than he deserved. Why had he felt the need to humiliate one already so far below him in station and circumstance? It was cruel and ungentlemanly. He was evidently out of work, most likely out of favour with the union and very probably on the brink of starvation, even if the part about adopting some relative’s children had been a fabrication. The knowledge that this man called Margaret his friend also nagged at the back of his mind. He had just been congratulating himself on the improvement of his character when this Higgins had turned up to reveal the merciless brute that still lurked beneath. What would she make of his treatment of her friend?

And that was not all. There had been something in Higgins’ address, something in his voice and manner, that had left Thornton with the distinct impression he had known the man before. But though he racked his brains he could not fathom when, where or why such a circumstance would have come about. The sensation was most unsettling. 

He was still distracted by the time he joined his mother in their large, formal dining room late that evening. 

“What did that man Higgins want with ye’?” Mother asked, spearing a boiled carrot determinedly.

“Work.” John replied. Their conversation was clipped and to-the-point, as always.

“Work?! And him a union man! He’s got some nerve!”

John did not respond. Something about Higgins had impressed him today, but he wasn’t sure it was his ‘ _nerve_ ’. 

They continued their meal in silence. 

“Although,” Mother began, selecting her words carefully as was her habit, “I do own that he was of some assistance to you when you took that stone to the head. And he did stay behind to help Williams put the yard to rights after the rabble took off.”

John’s head snapped up. He watched his mother plough through her roast beef with the same systematic determination he had witnessed in every aspect of her life. No wonder Higgins’ voice had seemed so familiar!

“Higgins was here, after the riot?”

“Yes John. It was he that helped get you upstairs until the doctor could be sent for. Well…” she added begrudgingly, “he and Miss Hale.”

John’s eyes widened in disbelief. He knew Miss Hale had been present, but he had assumed she had gone, or hopefully been escorted, home, after he had been taken inside. He had never imagined she would have stayed to… to…

“Either way he did show an interest in your welfare. I believe he even offered to go for the doctor.” she sputtered, alarmed by the sudden elation threatening to break across his face. Her tactic worked. John’s brow furrowed once more.

“Then I have behaved unforgiveably. I will have to make amends.”

“But you’ll not give him work, surely?!”

“What would you have me do, Mother?” he challenged calmly, “A man who considers me his enemy comes to my aid in my hour of need, and I do nothing but turn him away in his?”

“No,” she ventured quietly, “you could hardly do that. I suppose you are honour-bound to the lout...”

“Then we are in agreement.” John said. He polished off his last bit of gravy, and with a peck on the cheek, bid his mother goodnight.

\---

It was well past noon by the time Margaret managed to corral all six Boucher children into sitting down at the table for their dinner. Mary had gone to try to haggle some off-cuts from the butcher, and Margaret and Nicholas had quickly found themselves quite outnumbered. It was only with the promise of one of miss Margaret’s beloved stories that the rowdy bunch had acquiesced. One by one they fell silent, their mouths occupied with gulping down the watery stew and their ears delighting in her tales of pirates, princesses and far away places. 

When they had finished she set the youngest two on the small cot to rest and sent the others outside to play until Mary came home. As quiet descended on the Higgins’ sparse but cosy hovel, she set the kettle to boil and gestured to the master of the house to take his ease at the table. 

“Have you thought anymore on our discussion, Nicholas? On applying to Marlborough Mills?”

“Yes Miss Margaret, I’ve even gone one better,” he said with a grimace. She did not notice, busy as she was brewing the tea. 

“You have?” 

“I’ve spoken wi’ Thornton meself, jus’ as ye’ suggested.”

Margaret looked up at her friend, a brightness stealing over her face. She was proud of him, for it must have taken a great deal for him to put aside his pride and apply a second time. There was also some strange thing at the base of her breastbone that set itself fluttering at the mention of Mr Thornton’s name... 

“Nicholas! Oh, I am pleased!” She set a steaming cup before him before walking around the table with one of her own. “And he listened, did he not?”

“Aye, he listened.”

“Wonderful! So when do you start?”

Nicholas looked up at her beaming smile and felt a curious sort of guilt, which was odd, as he knew he would not be the culprit in its imminent disappearance. But the northman in him forbade him from embroidering the previous day’s events into a more agreeable tableau, even for her. 

“Not anytime soon. Thornton wouldn’t ‘ave me. ‘Im barely let a man talk, let alone ‘ear what ‘e come t’ say”

Margaret sunk down onto the chair rather gracelessly. So it had come to naught, this great idea of hers. She could hardly understand it. Higgins had shown such kindness towards Mr Thornton, only to be met with such disappointment. 

“But you told him of your predicament?”

“Aye.”

“And you told him of the children?”

“Aye.”

“And he knows you were not involved, and stayed to help him on that day?”

“The’s nothin’ doin’, miss! Forgive me, but ye’ don’ quite understan’ th’ way o ’these measters. Thornton may ‘ave a wheel an’ a few more pence for ‘is workers, but ‘e’s no different from the rest o’ them.” 

Margaret rose to her feet, her cheeks colouring with fury. She walked back to the stove, turning her back to the room in an attempt to conceal the extent of her displeasure. She was not sure what angered her more: the humiliation her friend had endured; or the notion that she had been wrong to alter her opinion of Mr Thornton. Any timid feeling she had allowed herself to entertain now seemed to mock her for her poor judgement of his character. He was a man without honour, that much was clear. She had been sorely mistaken, and her dear friend had suffered for it.

“I am sorry Nicholas. I had begun to believe…” her voice trailed off. She circumvented the table once more to look her friend in the eye, “I am disappointed in Mr Thornton. He is clearly just as you said: a man as deficient in kindness as he is in honour. Forgive me, I did not think anybody could be so cruel.”

Higgins eyes softened at her pained expression, before hardening once again into a look of angry disbelief as they flicked to something over her shoulder.

“Measter.” He growled, as Margaret’s eyes widened before his own, “Now what brings ye’ ‘ere, I wonder?”

  
  



	5. Realisations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the reviews, kudos, likes, favourites and follows. They really are so encouraging!

Margaret froze. An icy tingle of shocked embarrassment made its way up from the base of her spine to the tips of her ears, flushing them a bright crimson. Slowly she turned, her face cast down to the floor.

“Mr Thornton.”

He stood in the doorway, half of his tall frame hidden by the door that was only just ajar. Upon approaching the house he had seen Higgins sitting at the table, facing the graceful outline of a corseted waist and an ample, linen skirt. He did not need to see its owner’s face to know who it was.

“Miss Hale.”

Well, this was a surprise! And confirmation that she was indeed the woman who thought him kind enough to counsel her friend to apply to his goodness. The knowledge of her good opinion sent a warmth to loosen the knot in his stomach that had accompanied him on his humbling errand. He  _ was _ capable of kindness. She had been right!

_ And then you were cruel, and proved her wrong.  _

_‘_ But now I am here, to make amends, and do the right thing,’ he thought.

_ She does not know that. She still thinks you a brute… _

‘Then she is wrong! My coming here proves her right!’

_ What is it then? Is she wrong or is she right?  _

‘She is wrong if she thinks she was not right! I am capable of kindness. I am no brute.’

_ Well right now she must think you are mad, standing there arguing with yourself… _

Thornton tore his eyes up from the floor that he had been studying with considerable intensity. Higgins and Miss Hale were staring at him, bemusement on both their faces. They shot each other a quizzical look. How long had he been looming in the doorway, bickering silently with himself? At least he hoped it had been silent; it would hardly do to add lunacy to Miss Hale’s laundry list of his personal defects. 

_ For God’s sake John! Say something! _

“Nicholas, I have stayed too long! I really must be going.” said Miss Hale, cutting into Thornton’s half-formed thought. Securing her shawl about her shoulders, she gifted her friend a sympathetic smile before tossing a curt nod in Mr Thornton’s direction. Their eyes met just long enough for him to read the clear disapprobation that was written there. With a determined rustling of skirts she departed, leaving behind the faintest breath of soap and florals hanging in the damp, dense air.

A Darkshireman’s conversation is known for its economy, and the exchange between master and worker was no exception. Thornton shoved Miss Hale and her disdain from his mind. He had come to make amends, and so amends he made, even going so far as to offer his hand to the incredulous union leader, a symbol of agreement between honourable men. Higgins accepted his proposal, even deigning to thank the master for the olive branch he had extended. They stood for a moment in satisfied silence, each man taking the measure of the other. Higgins was the first to speak.

“Was the’ summat else ye’ was wantin’ measter?”

Thornton hesitated. With the matter concluded the embarrassment of Miss Hale’s words and departure flooded his thoughts once again. He opened his mouth to speak, but seemed unsure of exactly what it was he wished to say.

“No Higgins. That’ll do. I’ll see ye’ monday, and mind ye’ keep sharp t’ yer time.”

Higgins crossed the small room to hold the door open for the master. He took his time replacing his hat and checking his pocket watch, his fingers fiddling with the chain a for a little too long.

“Measter?”

“Was Miss Hale the woman you mentioned? The one who thought she saw kindness in me?”

Higgins suppressed a grin, his eyes twinkling mischievously. He raised his eyebrows in the affirmative.

“You might’ve said.”

“And ye’d ‘ave bin a bit more civil?”

With a begrudging smirk, Thornton tipped his hat to his newest employee, and left the small, dark house. 

As he walked the latent itch of embarrassment gave way to a raging throb of frustration. He felt angry at himself for yesterday’s foul temper; angry at Miss Hale for her inconvenient presence at the Higgins’ home; angry at how the circumstances invariably lent themselves to the misrepresentation of his character. It was maddening!

What a fool he was to believe her opinion of him could change! Why could she not see the renovations he was making on his person? The years of unbending, uncompromising strength of character and opinion giving way to the influence of her gentler and more compassionate world view. How could one so warm and welcoming in the foremost workings of his mind, be so self-righteous and unforgiving in the flesh. It was as if there were two Margarets, one the wise and accommodating sprite, the other an obtuse, untameable amazon. He had to admit he much preferred the former, but the latter seemed bent on turning up whenever he was shown to his meanest advantage. Infuriating girl!

He had worked himself up into quite a temper by the time he crossed the Mill yard. He tried to convince himself he did not truly care for her, that his feelings were those of a mere infatuation, and that she wasn’t worth his distraction. His head throbbed and his stomach churned at the very thought, as if his body were rebelling at its untruth. He did care for Margaret, in every way a man could, and her constant readiness to misjudge him stung. 

John was sullen and short-tempered over the next few days, as he tenderly nursed the wound inflicted by Miss Hale’s disapprobation. The gentle feelings that had taken up the habit of asserting themselves throughout his day became tainted with memories of her censure and the injury it caused. Even his dreams had become a source of frustration, with the apparition of his muse as beguiling and sensual as ever, yet proving immune and unyielding to even his most passionate advances. 

It was in one of these foul moods that he retired one day to the mill-house a good deal earlier that was his habit. His mother had sent a note informing him that Miss Latimer, the banker’s daughter, would be calling on herself and Fanny, and that he would do well to pay his respects, given the precarious situation of the mills’ finances.

“There you are John.” said his Mother, by way of a greeting.

“Yes Mother.” 

Without acknowledging any other of the room’s occupants, he turned directly to the console by the door, and poured himself a large brandy. There he stood, his back to the room, swirling the amber spirit round and round in the glass for several moments.

“Miss Latimer was just asking after the Mill.” said Fanny, attempting to draw his attention to their guest. Ugh, John was so  _ farouche _ sometimes!

John inhaled slowly, rolling his eyes at the wall. He took a fortifying swig of his drink, before turning to greet Switzerland's most exciting export, at least to the mind of his mother and sister.

“Good afternoon, Mr Thornton. What a pleasure it is to see you again.”

John’s confident stride faltered, imperceptible to all but his Mrs Thornton. 

_ Great God in heaven! _

This young woman was not the pretty-ish girl (by Milton standards at least) that he remembered. No indeed, John Thornton found himself struck dumb by the uncommon beauty of the tender goddess that stood before him. Framed by a perfect halo of resplendent golden ringlets, her delicate porcelain skin and perfectly symmetrical features gave her appearance an ethereal quality. The daintiness of her lithe figure was matched by the grace and poise with which she occupied the space in which she moved, somehow made softer by her presence. 

John struggled to regain his composure. 

“Miss Latimer,” he rumbled, after a significant delay “the pleasure is mutual.” 

He took the delicate hand she extended in his direction. His heart sped up at the contact as heated blood coursed its way away from his brain and to the less evolved parts of his person. He postured instinctively, drawing himself to his full height and portraying himself to his greatest male advantage. Her rosebud lips stretched into a honeyed smile at the primal gesture, and set something in the pit of his stomach to fluttering.

“Come John, Cook has baked those ginger biscuits you like so much.” said mother, patting the chair beside her, directly opposite their magnificent guest.

Fanny giggled as he sat down, his eyes still fixed on Miss Latimer. “You’d better hurry up and take one too, Anne! John scoffed the lot last time, didn’t leave any for his poor sister!”

Miss Latimer smiled affectionately at Fanny, before turning her attention to his Mother, who was asking John about his day. The subject of the day’s business kept the party engaged for a few moments.

“And how’s that Higgins getting on?”

John chewed thoughtfully on his ginger snap. 

“Well, I would say. He’s certainly one of the most skilled workers I’ve had in recent years. He keeps to his hours,” his eyes flicked to Miss Latimer for the tenth time, “and we have agreed that he is to leave his brains at home when he is at the Mill.”

“Who is Higgins?” asked Anne, after a dainty sip of her tea.

“One of my newest hands, Miss Latimer. He lost his position at one of the other mills following the strike. He is one of the first men in the union.”

“Ah!” Miss Latimer nodded.

“He’s a rabble-rouser and a trouble maker! I hope you’ve instructed Williams to keep a close eye on him.” Mrs Thornton spat, “He’s just the sort that would fancy himself ascending to the position of master, when he’s not busy stoking the mob to arms. I wouldn’t put anything past ‘im.”

Mr Thornton gave a wry smile at his mother’s contrariety. “I do not think he is planning any mischief, Mother. I reckon Higgins is a man of his word, and he clearly knows his way about a loom.”

“All the same, I can’t think why you had to take him on. Surely there are hands enough at Marlborough Mills without the likes of him kicking about!” Fanny simpered, not wanting to be left out of the conversation.

“Your brother is showing benevolence, Fanny,” said Miss Latimer softly. 

_ Yes! Thank you! At least someone understands me… _

Her perspicacity stunned and pleased him in equal measure.

“...although I can’t say I am surprised.”

_ Huh? _

All three thorntons looked at her quizzically. She dipped her head with a coy chuckle.

“Forgive me, perhaps I am presuming to know more of your brother’s character than I do. But from what I have gleaned from father and the other cotton masters, Mr Thornton has always sought the best interests of his hands, inasmuch as his role as employer will allow.” 

She fixed him with her crystal blue gaze. He swallowed thickly.

“Although the interests of all, masters and workers alike, are best served by keeping the mill prosperous. The strike, encouraged by the union, interrupted productivity and jeopardised those interests. Mr Thornton’s priority must be to ensure the Mill’s survival, and the survival of those that depend on it. You are not running a charitable institution after all…”

Further bemusement furrowed John’s brow for several moments.  _ Who was this heavenly creature? _

“Therefore my only conclusion in hearing that you have hired a destitute union leader, a man that undoubtedly played some key part in the recent strike, is that you have done so out of the kindness of your heart for his particular situation. Am I mistaken?”

Her positive appraisal of his actions, and the clarity of her argument left John flummoxed for longer than he was comfortable. How was it that his girl, this exquisite but so far insignificant friend of his sister, had such a clear understanding of the challenges he faced? Fanny’s open-mouthed gaze bounced between her brother and her friend, unsure of what to make of the intensity of their exchange. Mrs Thornton, barely looking up from her tea, allowed herself a small smirk, neatly concealed behind the fine china teacup. 

John scrutinized the lovely, disconcerting young woman sitting directly opposite him. He was unsure how to respond. He had entered the parlour with the sole intention of being civil for the sake of his relationship with her father, and incidentally his sister. He was not prepared to find himself so affronted by her beauty, nor so flattered by her appreciation of his position. And she was not entirely mistaken…

“Perhaps not so much kindness, Miss Latimer, as some sense of moral duty. I was in a position to help Higgins and so I did. I believe he is a good man, albeit a bit rough around the edges.”

Mrs Thornton snorted. 

“But I also found myself in his debt, as he was of some assistance to me when I was in need of it. During the strike, as it happens. It seemed only fair that I return the favour.”

She nodded knowingly, her eyes not leaving his.

“Then I must say that the combination of honour and kindness does you credit, Mr Thornton.”

Miss Latimer stopped there, conscious that any more explicit praise would offend the man’s northern sensibilities. But she was pleased with herself at having remembered, almost word for word, the speech that she had heard from his own lips at the last Thornton dinner party. He had hardly noticed her then. The words had been his calm rebuttal in response to that new, southern girl’s objection to the masters’ handling of the workers during the strike. Miss Hale’s audacity and flagrant disdain for Milton’s wealthiest and most eligible bachelor had shocked Anne. But the wounded look in Mr Thornton’s eyes had not gone unnoticed either. She had watched as those stormy blue seas had sought out the author of their pain throughout the evening. The southern lady’s terse words had obviously hurt some proud, male part of the handsome master. Anne had determined then and there that she would be the one to nurse it back to health. 

She turned her attention back to Fanny, tilting her head and smiling politely as the youngest Thornton tittered and shrilled as she recounted whatever inane piece of gossip she had moved onto. But she was all too aware of Mr Thornton’s eyes on her. He watched her as she sipped her tea and nodded at all the right intervals. He did not know what to think. His mind had been so taken up with dark thoughts of another, the sudden appearance of such beauty and empathy had thrown him completely. Although in the depths of his person his heart was still unmoved, Miss Latimer’s words and ready approval brought a small warmth in his chest and a cool sense of relief to his frustrated mind. He felt, for the very first time, the balm of what it was to be understood. And by a beautiful woman at that. 

\---

As pleasant an impression as the lovely Miss Latimer had made on John, he found the effects of it were really quite fleeting. He felt no regret in quitting her presence, and had no thoughts of her in her absence. There was no tangle of nerves at the prospect of seeing her again, no piqued curiosity at the sound of her name. She was a regular visitor to the Thornton household, and their paths crossed a couple of times when John called on Mr Latimer at his house. The sight of her pleased a very base part of him, and her flagrant interest flattered his injured pride. But neither her beauty, nor her devotion had any real consequence on his existence. She was like a patch of gauze temporarily pressed onto the wound of his bleeding heart, but he still longed for the one that was both the culprit and the cure in its affliction. 

John had seen very little of Miss Hale since their awkward meeting at Higgins’ home. He had resumed his lessons with Mr Hale the following week, always making sure to arrive a few minutes before time and lingering more than was necessary in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her. It was ridiculous really, for the few times that he did find himself in her company, he shrouded himself in an air of such complete indifference that the young lady began to believe that the mill master felt nothing but contempt for her. This suited Margaret, who combined his cruel treatment of her friend Higgins with his current detachment in an attempt to concoct some sort of antidote for the irresistible pull she felt toward him. 

His sudden arrival at the Higgins’ residence had unsettled her in more ways than one. Although she had spoken truthfully, the words were said in anger, and she deeply regretted the offense they must have caused. Despite her disappointment, she had no wish to injure Mr Thornton, particularly since, upon reflection, he had most likely come to make amends, and possibly even offer Higgins something in the way of a solution. But would his pride ever allow him humility enough to admit his mistakes? Either way, she could not be certain. And therein lay the problem: she was not sure of anything when it came to Mr Thornton. The mere mention of his name was enough to melt her innards into a puddle, and her vociferous reproof of his behaviour had somehow succeeded in conjuring him up on Higgins’ doorstep. She repeated to herself that she did not like him, but for some reason she did not want to be disliked by him. It was an odd state of affairs.

So she had made herself as scarce as possible upon his bi-weekly visits to Crampton. But with Dixon so often occupied with mama’s constant care, she had little choice but to attend to his needs as her father’s friend and guest. It was on one such evening that her father bid her stay and join them for tea after their lesson had concluded. 

Margaret rallied her spirits as she prepared the tray, reaching for the two china dishes piled high with biscuits. Tuesday was baking day, and Dixon had been at it all morning. Her hand hovered over the delicious treats, hesitating between the dense, shortbread circles and the rectangular ginger snaps.  _ His favourite _ , she thought to herself, with a small huff of frustration. Surely there were more useful occupations for her mind than the retention of Mr Thornton’s biscuit preference? To temper her annoyance she arranged an assortment of both flavours on the dish, and left to join her father and his guest in the parlour.

She trudged begrudgingly up the stairs , before collecting herself just in time to push the door open with her hip and enter the dimly lit room. Her father was seated with his back to her, and a momentary glance in her direction was the only acknowledgement she received from his pupil. Her heart skipped a beat, regardless.

Returning her father’s warm smile of welcome, she set the tray on a low table and slowly began preparing the cups and saucers. She knew exactly how both men took their tea, but did not want to interrupt, as they seemed engaged in their discussion about Milton’s banking institutions. Margaret could not tell exactly to what their conversation pertained. In truth she was not really paying attention.

She found herself quite overcome by Mr Thornton’s handsomeness this evening. He wore his usual dark waistcoat and jacket, but at his neck his cravat was the colour of burgundy wine, which set the ruddiness of his cheeks and the precision of his features to an almost breathtaking advantage. The strong, implacable jaw was dusted with the beginnings of a beard, summoning to her mind the heated memory of how it had once tickled beneath the soft pad of her own fingers. The strength and size of his frame, that had at times intimidated her, now held an irrepressible attraction, as she imagined what it would feel like to be hidden beneath it, protected and cherished by some unnamed, unattainable feeling on his part. His eyes were as disconcerting as ever, as they carefully avoided her own, all the while making a meticulous study of her every movement, completely unbeknownst to her. 

“I must say I was most impressed by his daughter’s proficiency in latin. Why, she rattled off at least three passages from  _ Metamorphoses _ when I took tea there, from memory, and with impeccable inflection at that!”

“Ah yes,” said Mr Thornton, reaching for his first biscuit, “I’m given to understand that Miss Latimer is very accomplished.”

Margaret’s ears perked up. She had heard that Milton’s foremost banker had a daughter. The subject had not piqued her interest any further.

“How old is Miss Latimer?” she asked.  _ Hopefully somewhere over thirty-five... _

“She’s about your age, Margaret, perhaps a year or two younger. She’s just returned from Switzerland, where she attended finishing school.”

_ Drat! _

“I am unfamiliar with the curriculum at such an establishment,” continued John, placing his saucer back on the tray, “But I confess that upon our recent reacquaintance I found myself quite surprised by Miss Latimer’s intellect. She has a keen understanding of subjects beyond her sphere, subjects,” he glanced unconsciously in Margaret’s direction, “regarding the mill, and the cotton trade in general.”

Margaret’s stomach clenched. She busied herself reaching for the teapot to fill the gentlemen’s teacups; first Mr Thornton’s, then her father.  _ Surely that was the end of Miss Latimer and her attributes? _

“And she really is uncommonly handsome,” her father mused, “I expect Mr Latimer will have no shortage of eligible suitors applying for her hand now that she is back.”

_ Apparently not.  _

“Aye,” agreed Mr Thornton, rather too quickly for Margaret’s liking. He smiled as men do when they recall a beautiful woman, “She is certainly a most attractive young lady.”

Margaret’s head snapped up to glare at Mr Thornton full in the face. She had never heard him speak of anyone in that way before. 

She did not like it. Not one bit.

Her sudden motion interrupted his brief reverie. He stared back at her, unsure of what to make of her expression. His eyes widened as they diverted to the forgotten task in her hands. A painful yelp severed the charged silence between them, as tea cascaded over the sides of Mr Hale’s saucer, splashing over his shoes and onto the floor.

“Oh Father! Forgive me! Are you hurt? Oh what a mess I’ve made!”

The clumsy incident brought an electric charge to the atmosphere. Margaret fawned over her father, oblivious to Mr Thornton as he observed her with less restraint, confused by her uncharacteristic skittishness. He had never seen her like this. Once the damage had been repaired, she settled herself in her chair, but neglected to pick up her needlework or a book as was her usual habit. She took little part in the conversation, and yet her eyes hardly left his person and when they met his own, he was disarmed by the passionate challenge he found there.

Her peculiar behaviour was far from over. As the gentlemen moved on to discussing some form of machinery or other, Mr Thornton, by now a frequent fixture in the household, took the liberty of reaching for another ginger biscuit from the dish which was nearest to him. As he extended his hand, so did she, and upon lifting the treat to his mouth he discovered it was not a ginger rectangle, but a shortbread circle. His face contorted as he glanced down momentarily to the table. How had that happened? Instinctively he looked up at Miss Hale, who sat upright listening intently to her father, a half eaten ginger snap held firmly between her thumb and index finger. 

He tried once more, this time looked deliberately at the dish to locate the biscuit of his preference, and then at Miss Hale who met his gaze quite brazenly. Again he reached, but she was faster than he, and discretely snatched the small rectangle out from under his outstretched fingers, before consuming her spoils triumphantly. This happened again, and again, and to Thornton’s bewilderment the insolence in her eyes seemed to increase with each usurpation. Fortunately, her father was much too engrossed in his own discourse to notice the strange theatrics that were playing out right under his nose.

Soon there was a single, orange rectangle left in the dish, resting atop a small mound of its circular, shortbread companions. Mr Thornton offered his host some half-hearted reply to whatever question he had been asked, but his mind was elsewhere: occupied with the unusual battle of wills (and biscuits!) he was engaged in. He looked down at the dish, and then up at Miss Hale, who glowered back at him, her countenance challenging him defiantly. He frowned. Miss Hale did not usually partake of confections that he knew, and yet in the past half hour she must have consumed at least eight biscuits! 

He glanced back at the plate, noting the slight quirk of her eyebrow in anticipation of his next move. He carefully placed his teacup and saucer down on the table, and with a last glance at his challenger, made to grasp the small dainty.

“Oh Father! You must taste the ginger biscuits Dixon baked this morning! Quite the most delicious batch! Here you go…” she honeyed, gracefully swiping the plate out from under Mr Thornton’s hand with a saucy look, “please, there is one left.”

Mr Thornton stared incredulously at Miss Hale’s triumphant expression. She did not look at him, but her expression betrayed a haughty satisfaction that left his mind reeling. What was she playing at? Her actions reminded him of those of a child, indeed in any other circumstance, or perhaps with some other person this might have felt like some sort of game. But her cold demeanour impressed him with the keen sense of rebuke. She was punishing him. But for what?

When his visit was at an end, he thanked his hosts, and quitted the parlour, not daring another look in her direction. He was grateful Mr Hale had not insisted that his daughter see him out. He was not sure he would be able to keep his offense in check after such a confusing display. He grimaced as the uncomfortable warmth of the evening stoked the nauseating unease he felt in his belly. He glanced back at the house. Did she share in his discomfort at all? Or had she simply retired for the night, to take her rest in all serenity and ease that became her person? The latter was more likely. Thornton stormed off towards the mill, ignorant of Margaret’s plight above stairs as she lay on her front, a pillow tucked under her belly, rocking her body in an attempt to relieve the great, self-inflicted stomach ache she felt from eating far too many of her least favourite biscuits. 

\---

“I see... And how often does the pain come upon you?” 

Dr Donaldson had finished his cursory examination of John’s skull, and had stepped back far enough to take in his patient at his full height. He had been called upon this evening to attend Miss Thornton, who had had another one of her (imaginary) dizzy spells. He had thought it prudent to check up on Mr Thornton’s progress while he was in the vicinity. 

“Seldom. Only when I am tired or over worked. I find walking to be very beneficial.”

The doctor nodded. He closed his case, and exited through the door held open for him. John followed him through, down the hall and into the foyer. 

“You are fortunate the blow did not lead to any more serious complications. Head trauma is a frightfully unpredictable thing, especially if left unchecked for too long.”

He pulled on the coat John handed to him. The wool heaved as it stretched to accommodate its portly proprietor.

“Spot of luck, too, Miss Hale being here to manage things until my arrival. Remarkable girl, that one.”

Thornton froze, the doctor’s hat still in hand.

“But she… No... Miss Hale left, not long after I had been struck.”

The doctor frowned, his thick eyebrows crashing together like two angry, grey caterpillars challenging each other to a duel across his forehead.

“No, Thorton, I assure you: Miss Hale was here when I arrived. She was quite the attentive nursemaid: bathing your wound and keeping you conscious, the clever lass! I have found most ladies of her station to be the most squeamish things, fainting at the first sight of blood and all that. But I was most impressed by her calm manner, she hardly seemed affected by your injury. Just overcome,” here the scotsman paused to scrutinise Thornton’s face- a picture of growing disbelief “when she learned you were quite out of danger.”

John’s mouth fell open for a fraction of a second. He quickly took hold of himself. It would not do for anyone, not even the family doctor, to see how this knowledge affected him. His mother had mentioned Miss Hale’s presence, but she had made it sound as if she had been completely removed from the action. He had pictured her sitting downstairs, impatiently waiting for the streets to clear long enough for her to walk back to Crampton and be rid of his home and his mill. He had never imagined she would have sat with him, tended to his injury,  _ nursed _ him to the best of her ability. Why, that would mean she had touched him! Her delicate hands had come in contact with his skin! Her face held a mere breath away from his own! In an instant John was drowning in a raging torrent of emotion. It engulfed his entire person and turned his face quite pink.

“Thornton, are you quite well?” the doctor asked, alarmed by his sudden flush.

“Yes Donaldson, I am quite well. Miss Hale is a vicar’s daughter. She has most likely seen more illness than most young ladies of her position.” he said, hoping his reply would satisfy the scotsman. His eyes had left the doctor’s face, and he stared back into the hallway, lost in realisations.

His mother’s call from the dining room jolted John back to the present. He did not know how long he had stood in the foyer, ordering and reordering his own thoughts and fractured memories. Miss Hale had stayed with him, had nursed him, had been overcome at the idea of losing him. She had thought him kind enough to send her friend to him. Then she had judged him, taken some unknown offence to him, and stolen all of his favourite biscuits. It appeared the puzzle that was Margaret Hale was no closer to being solved, despite these newly discovered (and most gratifying!) missing pieces.

Without a word he took his place at the head of the table, his eyes trained on his empty plate. He did not feel inclined to eat, but eat he must lest his mother worry he was sickening. As it was he knew she was observing him closely, glancing past her daughter as she recounted her visit to the Watsons’ that afternoon. The bonds of maternal affection alerted her to the engagement of her son’s mind elsewhere, and her protective instincts lead her to suspect where, or towards whom, his thoughts tended. John barely acknowledged Thomas the butler, as he piled his plate with venison and potatoes. It was unlike him. His manners were usually so agreeable, even towards the servants. 

It was Fanny, surprisingly, who managed to pull her gloomy brother from his cogitations. She startled when his deep voice interrupted her shrill laughter, asking that she repeat for him the last thing she had said. Fanny rolled her eyes as if the request were some great imposition on his part.

“I said it served him right for going on so much about her skill! I mean, I know she is only his sister, but I do not think it very gallant of Mr Watson to sing  _ her _ praises so, especially when I am present. Why, we are certainly matched in our talent for playing, and I’m sure I’ve never heard owt but a flat note from her when she sings...” 

She paused to take a breath and a small sip of water.

“And so I turned my attention away from him and did not say another word to the man all afternoon! Ha! I believe Mr Watson will think twice next time he intends on paying another lady a compliment at my expense. I’m sure I will never see him again if he doesn’t.”

John closed his eyes for a moment, sorting through the barrage of new information in his mind. Had Fanny formed some sort of attachment to Watson? He would have to look into that later. Watson had offended Fanny by praising his sister’s skill.  _ At the piano, _ he conjectured, knowing his sister’s lofty opinion of her own talent with the unfortunate instrument. But Fanny seemed to exult in the knowledge that she had set Watson right. That she had meted out some sort of punishment for his offence. But why?

“Because,  _ John _ ,” she said impatiently, “it is most unbecoming of a man to praise another woman in the presence of one in whom he claims to show an interest. I should be most displeased, jealous even, to find that any suitor of mine had even  _ contemplated _ another lady’s attributes or accomplishments, let alone suggested that they were the equal of my own!”

John unfolded from his hunched position, and sat bolt upright in his chair. He stared at, or rather through, his sister, a fanciful smile playing on his face as the sweet wave of realisation cascaded over him. The women were confused- the great, grey thundercloud that had joined them for dinner had evaporated and in its place was an unrecognisable breaking dawn. Both ladies found the transformation most unnerving.

“John! What are ye’ staring at?”

“I told you ‘e’s not been right since the blow, mother!” Fanny hissed.

“Hush child! John? John! What, have ye’ lost yer mind as well as yer appetite?”

“Sorry mother,” he proffered, returning to the present. The smile was gone but something whimsical and wondrous still shone from his face. He looked at his family. Mother’s eyes were wide and horrified and Fanny’s nose was scrunched up as if some horrible smell were wafting over her. He wanted to laugh. His changeable temper was obviously discomfiting them. 

_ Best pack it in, John, you’ll have all night to think things over. You don’t want an earful from either one just yet.  _

So John endeavoured to appear as stoic as ever, and the rest of the repast concluded without further event. He spent a few hours in the library, reviewing the day’s ledgers and penning some short correspondence, before retiring to his room at his usual hour. 

He rid himself of his day clothes, folding or hanging each item neatly in the wardrobe as was his habit. He crossed the room to the washstand, and poured the cool water into the bowl. He splashed some water on his face and neck, before meticulously washing his hands. He began by scrubbing his right palm against the back of his left hand, then twisting to rub both hands together. Weaving the fingers of both hands together, he rubbed them up and down to rid those small spaces the day’s grime. With his thumb he massaged circles onto his palm, starting at the joint of his wrist and working his way up towards the knuckles. He repeated the process on his right hand, before retrieving a clean cloth to dry himself off with. It was an unconscious private ritual, but one that allowed his mind to relax in the knowledge that rest was soon to be within his grasp.

But tonight his mind was racing, his thoughts hurling themselves in many directions as he thrilled at his newfound realisations. He had washed both hands several times before he realised his distraction. Miss Hale had nursed him. Miss Hale had been scared to lose him. Miss Hale had seen kindness in him. And that unusual behaviour the other day... Miss Hale had been  _ jealous _ over him!

John caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked positively wild! His hair was a mess, and his whiskers were showing. His dress shirt was open at the collar and one could just make out the distinct contour of lean muscle where he had splashed water on the garment. But his face still sported a delirious grin at the prospect that maybe, just maybe, Miss Margaret Hale might have begun to care for him. 

But he had to know for certain. As much as he was left in no doubt of the regard of many young women of his acquaintance (Miss Latimer sprung unbidden to his mind), Miss Hale was cut from a different cloth entirely. He suspected she would find his northern candour more worrying, than welcoming, particularly when it came to matters of the heart. He would have to proceed with caution, with discretion, with carefully calculated gallantry in order to secure her affections through slow and deliberate courtship. 

He stripped off the last of his garments and threw himself on the bed. It was unseasonably warm, still well into the evening, and the torrent of emotion raging within his chest did nothing to cool him down. He snuffed out his candle, and stretched his long limbs across the broad mattress. He had to know; had to find a way to procure the certainty he needed that she would be receptive to his attentions. 

_ “Just one word,” _ he whispered to the dark night that had fallen all around him, “ _ just one sign from her, is all I need.” _

The darkness made no reply. John fell fast asleep. 

  
  
  



	6. Rejection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hi all, thanks again for taking the time to read my story, and for all your comments and feedback. It really is such a boon to my writing! Please keep them coming, and be as specific and critical as you like as I really do hope to improve my writing with this exercise. I'm also on twitter @ElizabethHades if anyone wants to get in touch about this story, North and South or writing in general. 
> 
> I'd also like to reassure you that John and Margaret do get their HEA in the end, but not without a few more bumps along the way. I love these two characters far too much to give them any less!

The days that followed proved fruitless and frustrating for John. No matter how hard he tried, he was no closer to making himself known to Miss Hale. It was not that she was not receptive to his feelings. It was that she was never there long enough to hear of them.

Margaret had elevated her avoidance of Mr Thornton to an art form. Upon his visits to Crampton she made sure the tea tray was ready and waiting in the parlour for his arrival, forcing tea to be served during his lesson, when her presence could be overlooked (or so she imagined) for the sake of lively debate. This ruse also offset the requirement for refreshment at the end of the interview, effectively cutting his visits as short as was politely possible. She would scuttle in, serve the gentlemen, and scuttle out again without so much as a word or nod to either. On the days when she was particularly inspired she would contrive some excuse for an excursion; to visit one of her friends in the Princeton district, or to fetch some suddenly indispensable article for her mother from one of the shops in town. Her errands always managed to coincide exactly with the time that Mr Hale’s favourite pupil was expected to be at Crampton.

John remained undaunted. Patience, although not his strong suit, was a virtue he felt he would need to cultivate in his courtship of, and indeed marriage to, the gentle, sophisticated Miss Hale, with all her southern graces and sensibilities. So he gritted his teeth and savoured every fleeting minute he could get of her: the brightness she brought into the room each time she entered; the scent that hung in the air she had just occupied; the graceless dash she made across the parlour to clear away the tea things. 

He also relished the challenge. To his subconscious mind this merciless climb towards the summit of his prize, whose wonts and ways represented a delicious mystery, was the most enthralling pursuit to which he had ever applied himself. In the blinding light that was Miss Hale, every other young lady of his acquaintance was found wanting, even those whose designs on his person remained the most undisguised. He even began to consider their attentions rather irksome, and found himself actively avoiding their company, inasmuch as honour and etiquette would allow. 

The current state of tension between Mr Thornton and herself did not sit so peaceably with Margaret. She who prided herself on her soundness of character and mind began to suspect that the softening of her prejudice against Milton and its Masters had somehow brought about some nature of softening of the brain. How else could she explain the incredible lapses on her part of late? She cursed the day she had met Mr Thornton, for in the few months since their acquaintance she, Miss Margaret Hale; minister’s daughter and defender of all things chaste, christian and charitable, had succumbed to more temptation than in the entirety of her previous life. 

She began to worry her sin knew no bounds. She was guilty of prideful prejudice, of wanton lust, of bearing false witness, and of whatever it was that would cause a person to spitefully steal another person’s ginger snaps. She knew not how to atone for these sins, and so she determined to hide them, and herself, away from their most irresistible and persistent tempter.

But alas for poor Miss Hale, she could only abscond from so close a connection as her father’s friend and pupil for so long. After a few days of successfully evading Mr Thornton’s presence at every turn, it was on Milton’s most public high street that her inconvenient lack of self-restraint would next resurface, much to her own dismay.

Mr Hale and his daughter walked arm-in-arm down the cobbled road. They were going to call on the Higgins family, as Margaret had not had the time to visit of late, and the old parson felt it was his duty to accompany his daughter and provide some form of pastoral encouragement to her friend, whose precarious situation had no doubt little improved since he had appealed to their southern knowledge and connections several weeks ago. 

Mr Thornton was just exiting the post office, where he had been sending several letters to potential investors, some as far afield as France and Holland, as well as some of his mother and Fanny’s personal correspondence. Although the former had not the inclination, and the latter not the occasion to leave Milton, they still managed between the two of them to produce an impressive stack of letters for his weekly charge. John could not for the life of him fathom who would rank high enough in his mother’s esteem, and who would have shown carelessness enough to entrust Fanny with their personal address. But he still faithfully fulfilled his task each week, without question. One of the many ways in which he expressed his respectful affection for the ladies in his care. 

John still had one or two other errands to run while he was in town, but stopped short of pursuing his remaining business when he spotted the familiar shape of Miss Hale’s wide-brimmed, brown hat making its way across the street opposite him.

His body flushed hot with excitement from the inside out, quickening his pulse and splitting his face into an uncommonly wide smile. Who knew such an unremarkable accessory as that depressing brown hat could have such an effect on a man? 

Several passers-by were halted in their stride by the sight of the usually stony master looking so animated. But the streets were crowded, and although he felt he did not care, he was certain that the object of his jubilation was not so obvious to any onlookers as to be improper. Besides, she was with her father, who was known, after all, to have become his tutor and close personal friend. 

“Miss Hale!” 

_Oh dear!_ He sounded positively giddy! Even the old post-master was peering at him curiously from inside the blurry window. Thornton schooled his features into their habitual severity. Perhaps it wouldn’t do for all of Milton to see this side to him after all... 

He crossed the street with the confidence of a man who fears neither carriage nor criticism enough to check whether either are forthcoming from either side. Soon he was upon them, his features an odd tableau as his eyes sparkled with elation, yet his brow furrowed in an attempt at gravity. 

Margaret’s eyes widened in disbelief. She made to keep on walking, in some half-hearted effort to pretend she had not recognised the sound of her own name as it resonated across the busy market square. She stopped, feeling the inertia of her father’s arm holding her back. He turned to greet his young friend with a beaming smile. 

“John! What a pleasant surprise! What brings you to town at this hour? I would have imagined you would have been quite busy at Marlborough Mills.”

“Mr Hale, Miss Hale. Yes, an excursion at this hour is quite unusual for me. I was at the post office. I had some letters to…”

His voice trailed off as Margaret mustered her courage and raised her head to meet his searching gaze with her own. Heaven above, she was magnificent!

“To post?” suggested Mr Hale. 

“Aye,” said John, his eyes still fixed on her’s, “to post.”

They stood entranced, staring at one another for far longer than was proper. Margaret racked her brain for something to say. Damn this power that he held over her!

“At… at the post office?” She managed finally, gesturing pathetically to the building behind him.

“Yes Miss Hale,” he said gently, warmed by her words directed at him, “at the post office.” With an air of conspiracy he bent his head towards her. “For that is where one usually posts one’s letters.”

She looked at him bemused. Something warm was tugging at the corner of his mouth. He did not appear impatient, or offended, or angry at her in any way, despite her behaviour of late. And was that a twinkle of mirth in his eyes? His countenance was illegible, and in her great confusion she abruptly looked away.

His heart sank a little at the momentary deprivation. No matter, he would still enjoy whatever fleeting minutes of her presence he had so very unexpectedly been blessed with today.

“We were just on our way to Princeton, John.” said Mr Hale, oblivious to the tension once again. “I thought I’d accompany Margaret to call on Nicholas Higgins and his family. I fear they have fallen on very hard times since the strike.”

At this Margaret’s eyes shot back to Mr Thornton’s face, a mixture of apology and supplication written across it. At first he did not understand her reaction, but in an instant, the realisation was upon him.

_She does not know!_

He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders unconsciously. Her words of disapproval still rung in his ears, and he pushed the bitter memory of them aside. He knew that admitting his mistake would be of significant import to her. He would show her he was worthy of her good opinion.

“Then you will be pleased to learn Mr Higgins’ luck has turned around. He has recently found work.”

Margaret’s brow contracted. 

“Work? What work? Where? And with whom?” she paused breathlessly, deciding against adding _‘and how is it that you know about it and I do not?’_

Thornton repressed a smile. Her earnest concern was endearing.

“With me, Miss Hale. I have taken him on. I was mistaken,” he added ruefully, “and treated him most discourteously. But it has all been put to rights. And I believe Marlborough Mills to be better off for it.”

He watched the transformation of his words into understanding in the minds of both Hales stood before him. Old Hale’s face broke into a wide, approving smile; his tutor evidently pleased with his pupil’s actions and Higgins’ good fortune. But it was Miss Hale, the thus far elusive, contrary, Miss Hale whose response quite overwhelmed him. Him, and everybody else in the street. 

“Oh, well done Mr Thornton!” she exclaimed loudly, a bright, new dawn cresting on her face as she propelled herself across the appropriate distance of pavement between them. “I knew you would! I knew you were not like the other masters!” He was temporarily blinded by the sunshine in her face as she smiled up at him genially, clasping both his arms with unabashed affection. “You won’t regret such kindness I am sure.”

Mr Thornton was not sure where to look, and much less what to do with himself now that Margaret held him in so tender (and public!) a grasp. The full blast of her beauty at such close range rendered him momentarily speechless, but his northern reserve squirmed under the directness of her compliment. His elation waged war with his embarrassment, evidenced by the bashful smile that tugged at his lips as his eyes sought to rest upon anything but her own. Thankfully Mr Hale soon came to his rescue, indicating that he too had been taken by surprise by Margaret’s spontaneous display. 

“Oh, I am sorry father! Mr Thornton, forgive my… my...” she dropped his arms, a warm blush colouring her cheeks as she glanced all around her. _Oh no, not again!_ She stepped back until there was equidistance between herself and both men. What now? What could she possibly say now?

The two men stood in expectant silence. Mr Hale looked about, tipping his hat and smiling awkwardly at several incredulous onlookers. Mr Thornton ignored his audience, his eyes fixed on Margaret’s downturned face. _Devil take them all!_ What did she mean by throwing herself at him like that? 

“I must ask you to forgive my enthusiasm, Mr Thornton. I am just overjoyed to hear that Nicholas has found work at last.”

Mr Thornton let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. So that was it then. She was happy for Higgins, but unmoved by his behavio…

“And with the fairest and finest mill master in all of Milton, at that!” 

_Oh no!_ The words escaped her lips before the thought was even fully gestated in her brain. _Margaret Hale, have you gone quite mad?!_ She struggled for breath, her palms sweating, her corset seeming suddenly bent on her demise. She flushed hot and cold, and felt certain that her entire person must have turned bright crimson from the top of her hat to the tips of her toes. 

She could not tear her eyes away from Mr Thornton, who stared back at her in reverent awe. He bent his head towards her, his eyes dark and his pupils dilated under the firm line of his unyielding brow. The corner of his mouth tugged up rakishly, and the heavy milton breeze unsettled his thick hair, giving him quite a wolfish appearance all of a sudden. Indeed, as he looked at her Margaret felt as if she had been transformed into a delicious treat that he would readily devour in one ravenous gulp.

“Er... yes, very good John!” said Mr Hale, suddenly struck by the manner in which his pupil and daughter were gazing at each other. He looked back to the milling crowd feigning disinterest in their small spectacle. “Yes, well, perhaps we should be getting on. Until tomorrow then. Five o’clock, as always.” He tipped his hat and took up Margaret’s arm once more

“Until tomorrow.” rumbled John, his eyes never leaving them as Mr Hale lead his dazed and confused daughter away. 

\---

“Oh Margaret Hale! What have you done?!”

Her whisper echoed in the empty room, barely audible over the rustling of her skirts and petticoats as she struggled to extricate herself from their suffocating grasp.

“Fool!” She hissed. “Foolish fool of a foolish girl! Where others would stand and demurely commend a man for his kindness, you, Miss Hale, _you_ do not!”

She shoved the layers of cotton and lace down to her ankles, and stumbled over the top, clutching at the edge of the bed with a small squeak to steady herself. She dropped down heavily onto the low stool before her dressing table, and stopped to take in her reflection in the glass. Her eyes were wild and her brow was knit together into a dark cloud. She was flushed. She was frustrated. She was furious! 

_Oh no!_ She continued silently, _that is far too dull and reserved a course of action for a wild wench such as yourself! Best leave the man in absolutely NO doubt of your wantonness! Throwing yourself at him… at HIM! Of all people! Stupid, impulsive girl! Whatever must he think of you now?!_

She snatched up her hairbrush and began tearing through her dark curls, as if she might sweep away her troubles if she just brushed vigorously enough. 

_And father!_ She thought ruefully, _What of him? You embarrassed him with your display. You embarrassed your father, and encouraged Mr Thornton… in front of the whole of Milton! Of what, in God’s green earth, were you thinking?!_

At this she paused, and began to laugh, maniacally. The absurd events of the last few months struck her suddenly and she doubled up over the dressing table, laughing until tears streamed down her face.

“Oh, how fine!” She gasped as her mirth subsided. “What a fine kettle of fish this is! Mr Thornton will think you wanton, and will either abhor you, or abuse of you for his own end. And it will be your own fault, you silly girl! Your commuppence for embracing him, leaping at him, and stealing his biscuits with impunity!”

She watched as the merry reflection in the glass faded, replaced by the familiar wan face that looked every bit as taut as it did tired. Heavily she sighed.

“And this,” whispered some small, steady thing inside of her, patiently waiting its turn “what will become of this?”

“Nothing.” she breathed in reply. “Nothing will become of this at all.”

\---

_Oh Margaret Hale! What have you done?!_

Mr Thornton smiled ruefully to himself as he leaned his weight against his broad, oak desk, rubbing the bruises he could just feel forming along the length of his muscular thigh. He cringed as he tallied up this morning’s injuries: he had walked into a large bolt of velvet, bumped into at least two carding tables, and collided with three of his younger hands as he crossed the mill floor. Although his body was feeling the effects of this uncharacteristic clumsiness, his mind was far too agreeably engaged to care. 

_What have you done to me, Margaret Hale? That I have no mind for my work and no patience for my mill? What glimmer of hope is this that you have bestowed upon me, my love? Might you look on me with favour, and perhaps even welcome my suit?_

He glanced at the clock. Seventeen minutes past one. It felt like days had passed since he had last looked upon that cursed object bent on vexing him. It had read a quarter past one then. Time had slowed to make a mockery of his distraction, cruelly stretching out the hours between his work day and the moment he was anticipating most jealously. 

_This is it! This is the day!_

He was expected at Crampton for his usual lesson at five o’clock, and so had planned on quitting the mill early enough to freshen up before leaving the house at exactly thirty-five minutes past four. He had timed the short walk to perfection, and was confident in the knowledge that he needed no more than twenty-three minutes at his usual brisk pace to arrive at his destination on time.

He had instructed his man Gisborne to set out his dark green waistcoat and matching cravat, as the ensemble had recently proved quite popular with a room full of Fanny’s friends. The ubiquitous Miss Latimer had not refrained from complimenting ‘what a handsome shade of blue’ his eyes looked in contrast, and even his mother had commented on how well he looked. Although not a man without much inclination or time for vanity, he desperately hoped Miss Hale would share in their appraisal. 

He would not have time to bathe so late in the day, so hasty ablutions with some of mother’s lavender water and a spot of cologne would have to do. He decided against repairing the broken roller beam that his foreman had pointed out to him just before noon, convinced that the sweaty state of dishevelment that would inevitably ensue would not be conducive to showing himself to his best advantage that evening. He would have to get Porter, his mechanic, in to look at it in the morning. 

He straightened up and paced the room, his eyes invariably drawn to the pile of papers strewn across his desk, screaming silently for his attention. But he could not give it, not just yet. His mind was whirring with much the same intensity and speed as the monstrous machines on the other side of his office wall. He could not just ask her to be his wife, as he might have done with any other girl born and raised in the same sphere as his own. Perhaps he could call her by her christian name? as a sort of prelude to his declaration. No, she might just dismiss that as some northern expression of friendship- much like the handshake she had at first misconstrued but now partook of readily.

That was it! Her hand! Up until that point they had always shaken hands, as was the northern custom. Margaret had come to appreciate the gesture as one of mutual respect between any two parties, no matter the circumstance. Perhaps if he were to lavish that delicate appendage with more, er, _tender_ attention, he might just succeed in conveying just how much he wished to do the same with the rest of her. 

_Yes! That’ll do nicely!_ He thought, pausing in his step, a wide, congratulatory smile spread across his face. For a moment he considered sending his hands home, shutting down the mill, and racing across town to put his plan into immediate action. But that would hardly be possible, and he might risk terrifying Margaret, her father and his workers with his lack of restraint. No, he would wait, revelling in his distraction, neglecting all but the most pressing of the day’s work. Besides, it couldn’t be long now, surely!

Hopefully, he glanced up again at the clock. _Blasted thing!_ It was twenty past one. 

\---

“Margaret, there you are!” Mr Hale beamed at his daughter. “John, if you don't mind, I'll let Margaret see you out. I shall go up to Mrs Hale”

Without waiting for a response, he shook Thornton’s hand and bid him goodnight, stopping to cup Margaret's cheek before leaving the study.

They stood for a few moments, the silence heavy but for two very disparate reasons.

Margaret had been relieved, when Dixon had emerged from her mother’s room that afternoon. The Mistress had fallen asleep earlier than usual, and so Dixon was available to serve tea to the gentlemen when their lesson was at an end. Margaret had thrown her arms around the stout servant, thanking her warmly, and had retired to her mother’s sitting room to occupy her anxious mind with a good book until dinner. 

So engrossed had she been in her novel that she did not think twice before answering her father’s call. Carelessly she did not stop to consider whether she had heard the heavy footfall she had come to recognise (and relish, albeit unconsciously); whether she had heard the door to the parlour creak open and the door to the street swing shut. Careless. She had been so very careless.

And now she was trapped, struck immobile before him, as his height, his eyes and the inescapable heat that radiated from his person held her completely spellbound. Oh, and all that had passed between them! She still did not know what to make of it; what _he_ made of it. What he made of her! Drowning in her own discomfort, she did not discern his delight at this fortuitous opportunity of time alone with her. He had worried at her absence since his arrival at Crampton. Then suddenly she had appeared, as if summoned, not by her father, but by the fates themselves, as they smiled down upon him and his great and tender pursuit of love. This, _this_ was his chance to reveal his feelings, his intentions. With the exception of the previous afternoon, the weeks of stolen glimpses and polite niceties had left him starved of her, and he was eager to seize this opportunity to finally, _finally_ press his suit.

It was she that broke the silence, making for the door with a quiet but clear “This way, Mr Thornton.”

He followed her down the narrow staircase and into the hall. She paused, her back still to him, as if unsure what to do next. The sharp rise and fall of her slender shoulders betrayed the turmoil within, and she startled when his low, northern burr cut through the silence that had hung suspended between them for longer than she had imagined.

“Miss Hale?”

She turned to look at him, and had to avert her eyes from the warmth she found in his own. She glanced towards the wall, lifting his cloak off the hook and handing it to him. He swung the dark, woolen shadow around his neck, ducking his head to try and meet her eyes as he draped it over his shoulders.

A blush crept up from her neck and coloured her cheeks. His mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. She extended her hand, daring a hesitant glance in the general direction of his face. She was determined to be civil. Taking it in his own, he mistook its slight tremble as the coy invitation he was waiting for. Bending his head, he gently rotated her wrist and lifted it to his mouth, closing his eyes reverently. A measured but determined press of his lips. The brush of his thumb across her delicate fingers. The thrill of her scent and her pulse...

“Mr Thornton!” her voice startled him out of his miniature ecstasy. Her face was contorted into a horrified expression as she stared at her hand still held tenderly in his own. What on earth was he doing?!

The heat of his lips on her skin. The sensual closing of his eyes, as if lost in a memory of something far more tantalizing than this- his second time claiming her hand so brazenly with his mouth. It was too much. She would not stand for it this time. 

“Miss Hale, have I hurt you?” he enquired, confused. He brought his other hand up and lay it over hers in what he estimated was a soothing gesture. Her expression changed from one of horror to effrontery. Where was he going wrong?

“You mock me sir!” She cried, snatching her hand away as if his own were an open flame. “How dare you take such liberties!”

He stared at her, his eyes flicking between her injured expression and the hands she was now vigorously rubbing as if to remove the stain of him. He was stunned. His behaviour had been presumptuous at best, but mocking? He did not follow...

She closed her eyes to gather her thoughts. She had heard of men who toyed with women's affections, and took liberties in their attentions. Although not a gentleman in the strictest sense, she had begun to consider Mr Thornton a good, moral man, in spite of their earlier encounters having suggested otherwise. But good, moral man or not, what was excusable in the heat of the moment and in light of a recent head injury, was not acceptable when both parties were clearly in command of their senses and keenly aware of their surroundings. Why, father was just upstairs!

She had struggled in vain to put the events of that fateful afternoon in the Thornton's parlour from her mind. She felt shame at what had happened, at the heated intimacy that had taken place between them, but had convinced herself that it was, for the most part, of her own doing. Thornton would not have been so bold, cautious and reserved as he was, had she not given him some sort of unconscious indication that she would be receptive to such advances. And she had not resisted his touch. She had melted into it, giving into her own curiosity and the flaming heat that had possessed her person in that moment. No, she was far from blameless. But this... familiarity, this presumptuousness... this brazen disrespect for her father to accost his own daughter under his own roof... It was not to be borne!

Her words were rashly spoken and intended to wound. She needed the higher ground, scrambling to disentangle herself from the burning mess of feelings this man's touch had conceived within her.

“I apologize if I have ever given you any inclination that I would be receptive of such... er... attentions. Your touch was, and still is, unwanted...”

His eyes widened in confusion, the sting of rejection flashing across his face.

“I have no doubt that a man such as yourself may be used to getting your way, in business as well as in social situations. It would appear your wealth and status may have afforded you that right, here in _Milton_...”

She named his home as if it sickened her. His jaw clenched.

“...but you forget yourself, sir; you forget that _I_ am a gentleman's daughter. And where I am from, your behaviour is not the way of a gentleman.”

She glanced briefly at his face to see that her words had hit their mark. There was hurt and confusion in his eyes. A wave of regret washed over her. She made to speak again...

“Miss Hale I...” he turned his head to the side, searching the floor to his right for the words that refused his summons. “I do not understand... I thought perhaps… friends? We could be... your dislike of me was not so...”

His distress was palpable. His creasing brow and searching eyes endeared him to her, as they had on the day of the riots. This tall, powerful beast of a man so vulnerable, so earnest, so in need of her gentle care...

'I do not dislike you!' she longed to shout, 'I dislike what I have begun to feel for you! I dislike the confusion, and the anticipation. The memory of that wonderful, wanton embrace. The fire upon my skin when you touch me, the warmth in my belly when you speak to me... the fear that it might consume me.”

“Mr Thornton,” She held up a hand to silence his incoherent mumblings. “Forgive me, for it appears that I am once again the author of your confusion.” She had to look away from the bewilderment intensifying across his face. _Once again?_

“Let me be clear: I neither want nor welcome these attentions, particularly when we are in private. Please do not attempt to renew them. You are my family's friend and my father's pupil...”

She met his eye.

“... and considering the... improper behavior on both our parts, I fear there can never be anything more between us.”

She did not reckon on the weight that would settle in her chest at her own words. She did not reckon on the knot that would twist in her belly as anguish and dismay flashed across his open-mouthed expression. His hand twitched slightly in its place at his side, his wrist flexing upwards in the beginnings of an attempt to reach out for her. But he thought the better of it, let it drop, and schooled his features into the cold implacability she had almost begun to forget.

“Forgive me, miss Hale,” He began after a moment, his baritone low and unforgiving, “for the ‘liberties’ it appears I have taken. I did not imagine that my behavior would be offensive, even to a _lady_ such as yourself, considering everything that has passed between us. I had hoped...” he trailed off, his words failing him once again. 

An eternity seemed to pass. Margaret did not breathe. Thornton searched his disappointments.

In one swift movement he swooped his hat onto his head.

“I was mistaken. I bid you goodnight.”

  
  



	7. Rumours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, welcome back to M&M! I just wanted to thank you all again for following my story, reassure you that it is a HEA but, as the title suggests, there are a few more angsty (and hopefully thrilling) misunderstandings to come.
> 
> I have done some format and name editing on the previous chapters as well, so feel free to go back and have a look. Also, please keep the comments, critiques, challenges coming! I love them, they make me think and rethink what I am doing and are so encouraging to me to keep on with this story!

John leant forward, scrubbing his face with his hands as the train pulled into greater Milton. The journey from York had left him feeling sluggish and cramped, in spite of the extra room his first class ticket afforded him. He needed to move, to stretch his legs, and to avail himself of some fresh air in the hopes of dispelling the day’s frustrations. His meetings had been fruitless, more jumping through hoops with bankers attempting, so far as his innate candour would permit, to entice them with promises of quality and financial return if they would only ensure their clients paid their bills on time and procure some more custom. 

He knew the carriage would be waiting for him at Milton station. Mother had certainly seen to that. But the thought of spending anymore time folded up in another close compartment repelled his already weary mind. As the train approached Outwood, one stop before Milton proper, he rose to his feet and gathered his few things. He would be glad of the walk. 

He made his way to the train door, and leaned against the door frame. At least, he thought to himself, the day’s struggles had kept his mind fully engaged. In amongst his meetings and mediations there had been very few thoughts of her. Not one, in fact. 

He bore down on his heels to steady himself as the train shuddered into the station. No, there had been no thought of her bright evening smile. None of her pert reproaches during the day. None of the gentle care she lavished on her father, and the workers she esteemed so highly. None of the havoc both her presence and absence wrought on his soul in equal measure. 

He would have to call at Crampton tomorrow evening at the very latest, to see how his friend and tutor was bearing up under the cruel weight of his wife’s passing. He had seen very little of them since his ill-fated attempt at wooing her, and her bitter words of rejection still echoed through the cavern of his lovesick heart. In the weeks following his spectacular failure, Mrs Hale’s health had taken a turn for the worst, until John had abruptly been informed that his generous baskets of fruit and dainties were no longer required. It had only been a few days, but as he had yet to call at Crampton, the reality of the bitter loss the two Hales dearest to him had suffered had not yet fully registered in his own mind. 

In his male pride he still clung to the fantasy that he could somehow be the one she would turn to in her hour of need. Armed with his great love and compassion he would swoop in and gather his beloved into himself, to offer her the solace he believed she could only find in the comfort of _his_ warm embrace. He would be ferocious in his protection of her, willing to risk anything to ensure no harm befell her whilst she was nestled there. And yet he knew it could not be so. She did not want him, she would not have him, and so he must let her alone to wallow in her grief until she succeeded, by way of her great fortitude and virtue, in pulling herself out of that grey mire of despair. John sighed. Despite all their misfortune, both his own and hers, he could not help the small thrill at the thought of seeing her, the best and most beautiful woman of his acquaintance, again. 

John shook the painful memories from his mind, a wry smile toying with his lips as he chastised himself silently. Even thinking about _not thinking about_ her conjured her up in his mind’s eye. Why, he could almost see her... Clothed in the night, her face round and pale like the moon in all its full beauty. Her features exquisite, but her expression as tight as ever it had been of late. The deep, grey pools of her eyes filled with apprehension as she glanced about nervously. Her head bent comfortably towards the gentleman as he wrapped his arm in a gesture of familiar intimacy around her shapely shoulders… wait…what? 

John’s mouth fell open as the train dragged past Miss Hale and her companion clinging to each other on the platform. It pulled to a stop at the furthest end of the station. He stumbled down the steps, eyes wide and incredulous. Was it she? He must be mistaken, he thought, as he wove his way past a few other passengers disembarking the London-bound train. It could not have been her, for why would Miss Hale be at Outwood Station, in the dead of night, just days after her mother’s passing, on the arm of some unknown young man? It didn’t make any sense. 

He stopped short of breathing a sigh of relief as both the people and the steam from the train cleared the platform. Dear God! He had not been mistaken.

There she was, her arms locked around another man’s neck, her face buried in the wool of his cloak. 

There he was, breaking their embrace to gaze lovingly into her eyes, his thumb gently tracing the curve of her cheek.

And there John stood, his feet nailed to the ground, his mind reeling and his heart shattering to pieces.

Then there was a whistle, and some more steam, and a single, fricative syllable slurred loudly over it all. 

\---

John did not know how he came to be in the warehouse that night. He did not remember walking from the station, or ringing the bell for the porter at the gate. He did not recall thinking the better of turning in for the night, and heading across the mill courtyard, muttering some pretext to himself about checking on the arrivals for next morning’s orders. 

But there he was. His heart hammering in his chest, his palms sweating, his eyes stinging with rageful tears. How long had he been standing here? He could not say. 

To the left of a thick wooden beam that held up a cross-section of the roof, stacks of cotton bales, packed tightly in jute, lined the wall in front of him. When he turned his head, their uniform, greying bulk was all he could see as they continued their silent vigil against the warehouse wall. He turned slowly, his eyes taking in the current emptiness of his scrap and steel empire. 

_This is it_ , he thought distractedly. _This is mine. This is what I am._

_But what of her?_ enquired the emptiness, _What is she?_

The question loosed a fearsome torrent of sensation throughout his body. His head throbbed, particularly about the temple, and his innards spasmed as a sharp pain tore through his gut. It felt much like that day he had received a cricket ball to the stomach when he was thirteen. He had forgotten about that. 

_What is she?_

‘She is good. She is beautiful. She is so far beyond my reach in both merit and station…’

_She is tainted…_

‘No! She is innocent! Virtuous! A parsons’ daughter…’

_She is spoiled! Dishonest! Wanton!_

‘She is without reproach! Without blemish!’

_Corrupted!_

“NO!” John roared into the darkness. It made no reply.

He exhaled slowly, turning to rest his forearms on the topmost bale- so tall it almost equalled him in height. The jute sank under his weight, tiny fragments of fluff escaping its cross-hatching to hang expectantly in the air around him. He rested his head against the warm wool of his sleeve, grinding his teeth. It couldn’t be helped: no matter how he tried to rearrange the facts he had in his possession, there could be no conclusion that would absolve Miss Hale of impropriety. 

John let out a laboured sigh. How could she be so careless? He had known her to be passionate, impulsive- rash even, but this was so far beyond any of that. Had he been so completely mistaken in his interpretation of her character? To put her reputation in such peril, what with her family in such reduced circumstances; herself and her household only just entered into mourning. He didn’t dare contemplate the rumours that would spread like sickness if she were spotted. Her attachment to this mysterious midnight romeo must be most strong indeed to warrant such risk.

And what of that?! John drew his arms back and clutched, white-knuckled at the jute as he recalled the scoundrel’s handsome, patrician features. _A gentleman’s features_ , he thought bitterly. Their fond embrace and the lady’s weeping could only signal that what he had witnessed tonight had been an emotional farewell. Miss Hale had evidently given this man her heart, perhaps her promise, and heaven knows what else; and he had abandoned her to the night, to her grief, and to her easily fracturable reputation. He could not understand it. In an act of frustration dejection, he raised his right arm up high above his head, and let it pound heavily into the dense cotton. It felt good. 

He stepped back slowly, and postured to his full height. The cad might have some superior claim to the woman he wanted, but he would never be John’s equal. John Thornton’s strength was mirrored in every facet of his person- the force of his character matched inch for inch by the might of his muscle. He had seldom had to resort to brute force, but he, and all his acquaintance knew the potential was there, proud and powerfully woven into each sinew and tendon. He shrugged off his coat and yanked off his cravat in one swift movement. Taking his right hand in his left, he curled his fingers into a tight fist and clenched, savouring each aching crack as he prepared his weapons for battle. He glowered at the stack, willing the likeness of his newfound adversary to appear before his eyes once more. _Aha!_ There he was! 

John twisted at the waist, his muscles thick and taut under his shirtsleeves. He cocked his arm back at the shoulder, throwing his great weight into the impending strike.

_Thud!_ He sunk his first blow. The rigid jute split like a fat lip, cotton fluff exploding all around him. 

_Thud!_ The louse! Putting Miss Hale in danger, placing his own safety over h...

_Thud!_...should have stayed by her side and protected her. From her grief, from the night, from the rumours that would invari…

_Thud!_ The bastard! 

_Thud!_ Blaggard!

_Thud!_ The son of a bitch! Son of a WHORE!

John pummelled the dense cotton bulk relentlessly, though it showed no sign of surrender. Blow after blow rained down over his imaginary nemesis, until the crisp crack of bone against wood broke his assault, and a sharp pain shot through his right hand. John doubled over in agony, instinctively drawing his fist to his mouth. Dirt. Salty dirt. Metal. 

He shook his head, shuffling his thoughts back to the present. Stiffly he extended his hand to survey the damage. His knuckles were scuffed and torn, with small spots of crimson blood beading across the skin. His smallest finger was bent out at an unnatural angle, and was quickly turning an alarming shade of purple. He winced, the sight of his injury somehow increasing the pain of it. He knew what he had to do.

He located the cravat he had hastily discarded at his feet. One end was soiled, having fallen into one of the ubiquitous puddles that speckled the warehouse floor. He held the middle of the cloth between his teeth and began wrapping the dry end tightly around his misshapen digit. He clenched his jaw and squared his shoulders, bracing for the imminent agony he knew from experience the reparation of such an injury would cause. With his left hand he gripped the middle joint, and snapped his finger back into place in one decisive motion. 

John bellowed like a wounded animal; the low, bestial howl escaping through the doorway and dissolving into the night. He took a moment to compose himself, leaning his back against the cotton and mopping his damp brow with his uninjured hand. The feral rage had abated, quenched somewhat by his physical release, and had been replaced by the dull throbbing of his finger and the cavernous emptiness spreading out from the pit of his stomach to every part of his exhausted body. He had not wept since that day, so many years ago when his father’s coffin had been lowered unceremoniously into the ground, and he himself had been shoved, prematurely, into adulthood. Tonight it seemed his eyes had not forgotten the motion, and he clenched his teeth as he fought to hold back the flood of emotion that threatened to escape through his eyes. A single, salt pearl raced down his flushed face before anointing the damp and grimy floor beneath him; and whether it was the product of his exertions or a piece of his bleeding heart was a secret that would be known to John and John alone.

“Why, Margaret, why?” he gasped into the night air, “If you _were_ inclined to love, and be loved… why could it not be me?

The next morning Williams summoned some of the workers to the warehouse. No one could account for the damage: the first stack tipped slightly to the right; its topmost bale split clean in two, and its snow-white interior tarnished with flecks of blood. Afraid of the inevitable reprisals, the workers scattered like mice when Thornton’s heavy footfall was heard as he made his way to inspect the evidence. The mystery intensified as the usually unforgiving Master dismissed his overseer with a curt ‘leave it to me’; shifted the damaged bale onto his broad shoulders, and tossed the whole thing into the nearby pile of cotton waste.


	8. Remonstrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N Hello my readers, my apologies for the delay in updating. I am currently on holiday with my family and so this chapter and quite probably the next might suffer a few day's delay. 
> 
> I would like to thank you all again for your reviews, especially some recent ones that have been most moving. I am also very grateful for all the comments, critiques and feedback. It is all VERY useful and I really have taken note and tried to implement a lot of the suggestions I have received here and elsewhere. Please, keep them coming!
> 
> For who have expressed an opinion on the drama quotient of my story. The object of this exercise for me was to practice writing sexual tension, romantic angst and melodramatic emotion with an original plot within a familiar universe. I fear I should warn you that the next 2-3 chapters will be quite heavy on the drama. I apologise in advance if this is not to anyone's liking. 
> 
> Anyway, enough from me, I hope you enjoy the next chapter as much as I have enjoyed writing it!

The carriage ride from Crampton was fraught with bumps and potholes. These, combined with the confines of her corset and the rawness of her nerves left Margaret feeling quite unwell, as they made their way to the more affluent Midsbury. She was accompanying Mr Bell to the Latimer's annual ball, one of the highlights of Milton's social calendar and, incidentally, this season's closing event. She had originally objected, citing that she still had three months left of mourning. She had been pleased to come up with such a convenient excuse, as she could hardly imagine a more insupportable manner to spend an evening than in the company of the most attractive Miss Latimer and her admirers. Unfortunately her godfather would hear none of it, dismissing her reservations with a shrugged assertion that people were "not so fastidious about these things in Darkshire." Only when her father had asked that she spend an evening in society 'for his sake,' had her protestations finally been silenced.

Leaning against the velvet seat of his Phaeton, Bell observed his goddaughter as she worried her bottom lip, her fingers tracing nervous shapes onto her skirted lap. Even in mourning she was exquisite, her pallor shading her countenance with an endearing frailty that replaced its habitual haughtiness. His insistence on her attendance tonight was due only in part to the irresistible temptation of spending a whole evening in her delicious company. He had also found himself quite concerned with her wellbeing of late. Keen observer that he was, her movements, speech and expression had taken on an almost imperceptible slowness that had not escaped his sharp eye, and he was sure he had not seen a smile reach any further than the corners of her mouth in the months since, and even a few before, her mother's passing.

He knew that Frederick's stolen visit, whilst precious beyond measure, had shrouded the small Crampton house in such a cloud of anxiety that it had left Margaret at the end of her considerable strength. Ever the devoted daughter, she had rallied her spirits and consecrated almost every waking moment to the wellbeing and comfort of her father. A lifetime's occupation as his daughter had taught her that Richard Hale's very existence had been bound together by a handful of reverent ties that had, through his son's mutiny, his archbishop's audacity, and now his wife's demise, proven quite severable, leaving the man himself liable to fall apart without their girding. Father was a shadow of his former self, and in her need to protect him from the darkness of his own despair, Margaret had neglected to attend to her own grief.

Mr Bell had come and gone and come again. During his first absence a policeman had called with questions regarding that horrible man who had accosted the Hale siblings at Outwood station. Margaret was still unsure of the exact turn of events, except that the drunkard had somehow recognised Frederick, and yelled his name out loud for all of Milton to hear before assaulting him. Her brother had repelled his onslaught and thrown himself aboard the London bound train to safety just in time. The man, who she had since learned was called Leonards, had been found dead shortly after their altercation, and worse yet: somebody had identified Margaret herself as present at the scene, and on the arm of an unknown gentleman at that! Although she did not see the connection between the two events, fear for Frederick's safety overwhelmed her, and she found it demanded every drop of her courage to muster her four-syllabled denial.

_"I was not there."_

If lying to her parents weeks ago had torn her heart at the seams, lying to an officer of the law felt as though Margaret's very soul had been cleaved in two. For several days she lived in agonising suspense, taking neither rest nor food, fearful that every knock on the door and every pedestrian in the street would reveal themselves to be the harbinger of her brother's capture, or her own discovery and subsequent arrest. When Dixon brought the note that there was to be no inquest into the death, so overcome was she that her sturdy legs gave way beneath her, and she collapsed into a crumpled mess of ashen skin and linen skirts on the kitchen floor. She awoke hours later in her bed, a cup of tea gone cold on the bedside table, and the note that still read of the presiding magistrate's instruction that the case be closed.

 _Poor creature,_ thought Mr Bell to himself, _drowning in the thick of it all._

Despite his compassion, Mr Bell was somewhat mistaken. Margaret was not drowning. In fact, she was not anything. She was completely insensate- hemmed in, filled and overflowing with a nothingness that begat more nothingness still, and more nothingness beyond that. Weeks of duty, deception and despair had worn her down to a state of total numbness. She stared out of the carriage window, two thoughts chasing each other round and round in her mind, like a dog in pursuit of its own tail. The first: that she hoped the discomfort of the journey would not make her ill; and the second: that then again, the sensation might be welcome, as would any other feeling be at this point.

_If I can feel ill, then I am still alive._

Margaret sighed. Mr Bell, whose eyes had not left his young charge, pursed his lips and furrowed his brow sympathetically, as one does upon seeing a small child in a state of upset. He glanced out the window. It wasn't far now. Soon there would be music, and laughter, and dancing to distract her. And perhaps, without the intermediary of her father, his own company might perchance prove an appealing diversion to his enchanting goddaughter.

Across town preparations for the Latimers' ball had also been underway over the past few days. Fanny Thornton was quite beside herself with excitement, confident that the evening would be her opportunity to 'secure' Mr Watson once and for all. Anne had confided that her father had spared no expense for the event, as it was an unspoken opportunity to celebrate his daughter's reintroduction to Milton society- "a 'coming-out' of sorts" she had said. A large band had been hired, Mr Latimer conceiving that the most effective way to throw his only daughter in the path of wealthy suitors would be to throw her (quite literally) into their arms, by way of the latest, two-person dances that were all the rage in London. The youngest Thornton had been secretly instructed to come prepared for at least ten waltzes, several polkas, a handful of galops, and only a couple of quadrilles to appease the older guests. She could hardly wait!

But, oh! Where was her blasted brother when she needed him? He who had every opportunity to travel to the most glamorous, faraway places (like London, or Liverpool) at his fancy, and who had indeed done so several times more than was usual in the past three months in an attempt to reassure his associates who had been made uneasy by the strike. His business often required that he attend social functions with some of his wealthier, southern investors, particularly in and around London. There had been small, intimate gatherings; local dances; and even the occasional grand ball with several hundred guests in attendance. John quickly discovered that in such instances, a rudimentary knowledge of dancing was indispensable.

Weary from his latest journey from Le Havre, he had barely crossed the threshold before Fanny had set upon him, screeching and brandishing a handful of printed leaflets that had visibly borne the brunt of her enthusiasm. She had no doubt spent the last few days poring over every detail illustrated within. John _'just had to'_ show her how she should hold herself up against her partner, and where to place her hands so they didn't flail about; but John ' _might just try not being so tall_ ' for surely most men weren't; and if only John could ' _lead a little but not quite so much, or so fast, or like that_ ' she would master the steps in no time, without him dragging her gracelessly into the next before she was ready.

John had put aside his exhaustion and humoured her for the best part of two hours, secretly enjoying himself although he would never admit to it. He teased and twirled his little sister, relishing her earnest peals of laughter that reminded him of the sweet years of her infancy. It was in these small ways, hidden from all except his mother, that John Thornton made his affection for Fanny known. Despite the fact that he found her company chafing and conversation vapid, there was virtually nothing he would not give her, be it the most expensive London accessories, the latest medical frivolity, or a competent (and long-suffering) partner to practice the most fashionable dance steps du jour.

Their dance lesson complete, Fanny was surprised to find that her brother did not share her enthusiasm for the impending event. 'What,' she had shrilled, 'could possibly be more enjoyable than spending an evening dancing with the most desirable woman in Milton?' John could hardly disagree, though he strongly suspected in their minds' eye his sister and he were picturing two very different ladies. Miss Latimer was accomplished, intelligent and attentive, but there was something that made John quite uneasy whenever he spent too much time in her company. And every attempt to coax his feelings beyond the most primal of twitches left him feeling as though he had abased himself to the worst kind of betrayal; that of his own heart.

\---

There was a perceptible shift in the atmosphere as Mr Bell and his goddaughter were announced to the room. If Margaret had hoped that the events at Outwood had gone unnoticed, the curious glances and hushed whispers that surrounded them soon disabused her of any such notion. In truth, she did not care. It had required all the strength she could muster to attend this function, and so she had very little left to spend on being self-conscious. Ignoring their stares, she fixed a polite, well-bred smile on her face, and set about feigning interest in the introductions and exchanges into which she was thrust. Soon she felt the crowd's attention shift elsewhere, and allowed herself to relax a little from under the weight of their scrutiny. She was unaware of one who watched her still, his face apparently devoid of any emotion, save for the colour that flashed momentarily upon his cheeks, and a heat that lingered in the darkness of his pupils.

He had not expected to see her again so soon, although it had been at least three months. Thornton prided himself on being well-versed in the art of self-denial, and yet the anxious hammering in his chest confirmed that his heart still rebelled against her rejection of himself and her preference for another. Suddenly unable to follow the discussion, he excused himself from his small party, and was not seen again for some time- an absence that did not go unnoticed by his mother, or the ever attentive Miss Latimer.

When he did reappear it was in close enough proximity to Mr Bell that the customary pleasantries and conversation were required. They stood but a few metres from Miss Hale, absorbed in discussion, and only the slight tilt of his head suggested that his attention had not been entirely captivated by the illustrious Oxford Fellow.

From the corner of his eye he watched enviously as Fanny and two of her friends descended on Margaret.

"Ah, Miss Hale, you do look well!"

_She does not look well. She looks pale and exhausted._

"I must say this colour quite becomes you! Although it is a few shades too dark to be in keeping with this season's pastels."

_Every colour becomes her. She is still in half-mourning. Christ, why is everyone so stupid?_

Their conversation continued to exasperate him until the small group moved away, taking Miss Hale with them, to be introduced to some more young people on the other side of the room. He was just about to excuse himself, perversely determined to stay within eavesdropping distance of her, when something Mr Bell said caught his attention.

"I had some notion that I might try her myself. She is such a lovely creature, and I should like to know she were secure. But how welcome the idea of a stuffy, sexagenarian for a husband would be I'm not so sure!"

John shot a shocked glance at the man beside him, carrying out an expert study with the briefest flick of his eyes. Any reservations he had had at his own eleven year difference with Miss Hale suddenly evaporated. Was this greying, eccentric friend of her father's really considering applying for Margaret's hand?

He recognised the symptoms easily enough; the hunger in her godfather's eyes for one, as they both observed the object of their conversation from across the room. And he did cut a rather dashing figure, long and lean in his fashionable London apparel, his quick wit and playful nature affording him an easy charisma that John knew he himself sorely lacked. As well as all this, in circumstance alone, Adam Bell was quite five times more suitable a match for Miss Hale, and his wealth and situation could clearly provide her with the comfort and society that became a young lady of her station.

And though he scarcely thought it possible, John Thornton found himself feeling even more hopeless than before.

"Failing that, I suppose there is always that other Lennox, the clever one. I seem to recall Richard mentioning he was rather keen..."

Lennox? Who was Lennox?! The name was vaguely familiar, evidently in some connection to the Hales. Something to do with their London relations. A cousin perhaps?

"It would be a prudent match I suppose. Margaret would be able to avail herself once more to the society to which she was born. And for Lennox, well, the inducement is clear enough, wouldn't you say?"

Thornton turned his scowl in the direction of the lady in question, his hopelessness suddenly replaced with a ferocious jealousy. Bitterly he conceded that it would be impossible to refute the gentleman's last assertion. But this was infuriating! First that scoundrel at Outwood, then Bell, and now a Lennox of some description. Were there no single men left in all of England who did not have some sort of design on Margaret Hale?

A solitary oboe signalled the beginning of the dance portion of the evening. The gentlemen quitted each other's presence with a curt nod, Bell going off in search of Margaret and Thornton in whatever direction was completely opposite. The former found her standing demurely to one side of the crowd that was inching its way towards the ballroom.

"There you are my dear! Having fun?"

"Yes Mr Bell. You were right, you and Papa; a change of scene and society is quite agreeable."

"Good, good, jolly good. Now, my first victory was in getting you to attend, will I, I wonder, succeed in the herculean task of convincing you to partake in any of the festivities? A polka, perhaps? So you can mock your old, gouty godfather as he trips over his own two feet?"

With this joke and the accompanying flourish he prevailed in eliciting the closest thing to a laugh he had heard in months.

"Oh no, Godfather! I am afraid that is impossible! It is scandalous enough I am here before my six months are over. Besides, I am not inclined…"

Her eyes left his as her voice dissolved quietly into nothing. Mr Bell turned to see what it was that had arrested her attention. There was nothing out of the ordinary: the moving crowd; a small party gathered around Mr Latimer and his lovely daughter; Mr Watson escorting Mrs and Miss Thornton into the next room; Mr Thornton brooding in a corner, glowering at the rest of the company as was his habit.

He turned back to Margaret to enquire whether she had seen something to upset her, but he was not able. With the smallest of curtseys and a mumbled "excuse me," she fled, and even Mr Bell's sharp eyes soon lost sight of her as the guests swarmed past him. They did, however, notice Mr Thornton posture to his full height as his gaze shot across the room, tracking Margaret's disappearing form into the crush of silk and feathers.

The dancing occupied most of the guests attention for the greater part of the evening. Fortunately for Fanny, Mr Watson displayed no great proficiency in the skill, and was far too focused on his own feet to notice how she scrunched up her nose or worried her lip during the more difficult formations. Her brother had yet to darken the dancefloor, as Miss Latimer's efforts to enlist him had been thwarted at every turn by a barrage of eligible young men all keen to try their luck with the wealthy beauty. He was not inclined to dance with anyone else, or at all for that matter.

After several dances Mrs Thornton came to his side to suggest he stake his claim on Miss Latimer while he still had the opportunity. His only acknowledgement was a curt nod. He knew his mother well enough to know that she harboured no great admiration for Miss Latimer, but was motivated by both the advantage of the match and her dislike for Miss Hale. Ironically for her, they were soon joined by Mr Bell, who appeared that evening to have no recourse to any other topic of conversation other than that of his goddaughter, whose predicament and wellbeing weighed heavily on his mind.

Mr Thornton was in no position to object. He welcomed any morsel of information about Miss Hale to feed his great, unrequited love, like a starving man feeding on breadcrumbs. Several more people joined their small group, some attracted by Mr Bell's charismatic story-telling. Others were drawn by their curiosity about the girl who had only recently been the subject of the tittle-tattle of Milton, and had audaciously attended such a public event before her full six months of mourning were complete. Soon the crowd was being regaled with tales of Margaret Hale's bucolic, southern childhood, and how her parents quite despaired of her and her mischievous ways. Although Mr Bell made sure at every interval to add what an exemplary young woman she had eventually turned out to be.

"No truly, truly, although her father might be the man of God, Margaret is holiness herself! No, I jest, forgive me. But she is a great credit to her father, and I remain convinced that in integrity, and honesty, Margaret has no equal, especially amongst the coy, missish young girls of her age."

"Is Miss Hale really known to be so truthful?" John asked, cursing his impetuous tongue as soon as he had spoken. The group fell silent and stared at him quizzically, curious as to what could have possibly happened between the two that would cause the immovable Mill Master to speak with such bitterness. Only Bell's expression did not implore that he divulge anymore. In fact the man seemed faintly amused at his outburst, which only stoked his resentment. His glare was met with a knowing smirk, as the older gentleman turned his attention to his mother.

"Yes, well… Ah! Mrs Thornton! Forgive my impertinence but was that your own, lovely daughter I saw earlier, dancing with Mr Watson?"

Relieved at the shift in attention, John turned to survey the room. His breath caught in his throat as an inimitable shape in a familiar hue arrested his attention from across the room. Miss Hale had just extricated herself from an uncomfortable conversation with one of the other Mill Masters, a Mr Slickson, who laboured under the false impression that vulgarity was an acceptable substitute for wit. To an undiscerning eye she seemed unaffected by the encounter, but to Mr Thornton, who had made an exact science of his study of her person, the slump of her shoulders and the droop of her lips betrayed how tiresome the exchange must have been. He let out a growl from deep in his throat as he caught Slickson leering at Miss Hale's retreating figure. The slimy worm… how dare he?!

For her part Margaret was completely unaware of Mr Slickson's lecherous attention to her back. Her thoughts all converged towards the evening's principle revelation. She had arrived at the ball all but dead on the inside, and a single look at the person she had least wanted to see was all it had taken to jolt her comatose spirit back to life. So foreign had the feeling, any feeling, been to her in that instant, that she had hardly known herself, and had needed several moments to ascertain what exactly it was that she was experiencing. It had been small, so very small, too small to define. But perhaps, if she remained very still and quiet, and chanced a glance in his direction once again...

There it was! A flame... A fear... A feeling, by God a feeling! Without name or nomination but there, flickering in the darkness, after weeks of numbness and nothingness, as she stood apart from the crowd, watching his tall figure as his eyes determinedly searched the room from some unknown thing. How odd, and then again how fitting, that this small spark should warm Margaret from the inside out upon beholding the man who had occupied most of her thoughts, and all of her regrets, of late.

And here he was again, his eyes boring into her as if they would penetrate the very depth of her bones, and this from halfway across the room. There they stood, rooted to the polished floor beneath their feet, a blazing inferno raging in his breast; while that small, but hopeful flame flickered in hers.

The company's discussion of Miss Hale could no longer sustain him, not now that the woman herself had appeared before his eyes. He knew he should not go to her, that his place was at his mother's, or some other lady's side. That after all that had passed between them there was no hope of resolution. That any exchange would most likely end in injury for one or both of them.

In the distance he could hear his mother's protestations at his abrupt departure from their party. He barely noticed the chattering crowd as it cleaved before him, like the brush about some great, predatory cat closing in on its prey. In a moment he was upon her, feeling strangely small and cornered although it was he that towered over her in the middle of the great ballroom. For a moment they stood, feeling no need to fill the small space between them with speech of any kind. Then it was he that broke the silence first.

"A dance, Miss Hale."

Instantly compelled by his words that spoke neither question nor command, Margaret placed her delicate hand into his outstretched palm. He twisted his left hand and extended his arm, pulling her gently closer to him, and placing his right at her back at the exact moment she settled her other hand on his shoulder. To those watching, of whom there were many, the small scene appeared almost choreographed in its synchronicity. In perfect harmony they began to move, and Margaret found herself transported more than lead by Mr Thornton's confident strides, as they spun gracefully around the room .

Soon they were alone, the other couples fading to peripheral haze and shadow until they became one with the gaudy papers and fashionable decorations. Nothing remained but the violin's song, a sweet and fragile sound that stretched taut like the invisible thread that held them both spellbound to each other. Although they felt no need for words, Margaret longed to hear him speak once more. Each rumbling syllable kindled something warm and welcome deep within her.

"You have been missed at Crampton, Mr Thornton." she began, "By my father, that is. He takes great pleasure in your company."

"And I, his. I am sorry that… circumstances have kept me away. You will give him my best, I am sure."

"Of course."

They glided in silence for a few moments. Margaret allowed herself to study his features as he maintained his unflinching vigil of her face. At length, he spoke, although he was reluctant to interrupt whatever thought it was that was colouring her cheeks so.

"Miss Hale, will you allow me to speak plainly. I know it is not what you may be accustomed to, but I fear I might not get another opportunity."

She did not protest, her countenance unchanging save for a small raise of her eyebrows, which Thornton took as her assent as he continued to guide her around the room.

"I have just heard you praised for your exceptional integrity and truthfulness. And yet, although I was long of the same opinion, I find I am unable to agree, having suffered first hand the effects of your duplicity."

He faltered at the pained look that flashed across her face. Oh, this would not do! He must continue!

"In our short acquaintance I have known you to both reject, and welcome a man's attention, most enthusiastically, even in such circumstances as would gravely injure your own reputation."

He felt her small hand tense in his own, but still she remained silent. So she did not deny it!

"And I confess I have been quite unable to forget the matter, especially since I found myself in the precarious position of having to cover for your indiscretion before the law."

At this Margaret frowned.

"The law, Mr Thornton? What does the law have to do with it?"

Thornton raised his brows, and gripped her tighter at the waist, as if it were the seat of the reason she was clearly not seeing. He bent his head, his breath hot upon her ear.

"It was I, in my capacity as magistrate, that presided over the death of Mr Leonards. And what is more," he continued over her gasp, "I was there on the night of his death, and was a witness to the presence that you so fervently denied at Outwood station."

Margaret pulled back to look him full in the face, arching her body towards him in doing so. His hand slid lower down her back. He kept it there.

"But Mr Thornton! I did not know you saw me at Outwood station!"

"Did you not? Then of what did you… no, it is of no matter. I did, Miss Hale. I saw you and the gentleman with whom I presume you are on intimate terms, from what I observed."

The realisation hit her at the backs of her knees, and she would have fallen had not his strong arms held her upright, closer than was appropriate. He slowed his sweeping strides, giving her time to steady herself against him. He already knew too much! And apparently presumed much more!

"Oh Mr Thornton! What must you think of me!"

"I do not know Miss Hale. Perhaps you could tell me what I should think?"

Disheartened, Margaret dropped her gaze, her arms slackening.

"You have very little choice before you. And, although things are not quite as they seem, you are right in some respects. In regards to my being… that is… my own… improper behaviour."

Her voice trailed off. She studied their feet that moved in perfected lockstep, while their words seemed bent on entangling them both in further misunderstandings.

"Who was that man?"

At this her face shot back up to his, her eyes wide and panicked. His heart wrenched.

"Do not alarm yourself madame," he said gently, bending his head to hers. "I have instructed that the case be closed, and closed it shall remain."

It took a moment for her expression to ease, as she turned over the implications of his statement in her mind.

"You would do that for me, Mr Thornton?"

"I would do anything for you, Miss Hale."

His words were an enchantment that thrust them into an understanding from which neither would ever truly escape. It was in those words that Margaret finally realized. The caress of his voice, the safety of his confident steps, the devotion in his eyes. She knew in that moment that the very same feeling was reciprocated within her own heart. She too would do anything for him…

"Who was he, Miss Hale?"

Anything, except this.

She looked up at him, her silence both adoration and supplication. _Please, please, let him understand!_

"I cannot tell you, sir. It is a very great secret."

For a moment Thornton thought he must have misheard. His step faltered and he had to skip to the next formation in order not to become a hindrance to the other couples that had suddenly materialised all around them. Once more he asked her, and when she would not yield, he pulled her almost flush against him, more roughly than was his intention. Margaret trembled as his fury seemed to propel them faster around the room.

"A secret, Miss Hale? Aye, I surmised as much when I had to lie to an officer of the law about your presence at the scene of a suspected murder."

He paused to see if here she would respond. Her silence fuelled his onslaught.

"Very well, you keep your secrets Miss Hale. I will not give you away. I have only myself to blame, for my own foolish passion for a woman who would so easily risk her own reputation for some stolen dalliance, then drag the whole world down into sin with her."

Against his cruelty she could make no defence. The music began to transition, the chatter of the crowd suddenly audible, amplifying the tension that hung in the air all about them.

"I have sinned enough on your account, Miss Hale. No more."

He lowered his arms, and with them her own. Although the dance was at an end his anger had not yet abated. Drawing himself up to his full height, he spoke in a tone so spiteful that Margaret could not conceive of the tender confession that that same voice had made just moments before.

"As you once said, there can be nothing between us. Forgive my slowness at reaching the same conclusion. And rest assured, madame, I will now be looking to the future."

With the briefest of bows, he was gone, crossing the room with his great strides until he reached the young lady that had been watching their encounter with poignant interest. She turned, rather abruptly, away from young Lieutenant Kennedy who was just about to apply for her hand for the upcoming polka.

"Miss Latimer," he began, smiling inadvertently at the relief of scorning one who had injured him so, "might I be so bold as to request the honour of the next dance?"

"Of course, Mr Thornton," replied she, before lowering her voice for his benefit alone "A gentleman such as yourself may be as bold as he likes!"

Her audacity gave him no pause. Conscious that Miss Hale was still within earshot, he laughed loudly, before making his reply.

"Then may I request the next dance after that? And as many others as you would tolerate me for Madam."

Mr Bell watched in confusion as Mr Thornton lead Miss Latimer away, leaving Margaret abandoned and staring after them in his wake. He rushed to her side, and guided her gently to a more discrete corner of the next room. When he was certain they would not be overheard, he took both her hands in his, and asked how he could be of assistance. She raised her head to meet his gaze, and Mr Bell found himself completely flummoxed at the unreadable expression on her face. Her eyes shone with tears, but her face was flushed, and a euphoric smile graced her lips.

 _Perhaps what they say is true,_ thought he, _too much excitement will make a woman run mad..._

"Oh Mr Bell, I assure you, I am quite well." said she, as if reading his thoughts. "I mean, I am quite… I feel almost… oh! I cannot find the words!"

"Do not trouble yourself, my dear," he said, patting her arm affectionately, "I think our little excursion is at an end. I will call for the carriage and take you home. I am sorry, for whatever that most ungracious Thornton has done to make you feel this way."

"Yes," she replied, her eyes and voice filling with tears once more, "Mr Thornton, he… and I… I believe I feel most… " she looked down and shook her head, dismissing whatever it was she could not bring herself to say. Then, to his great bemusement, she reached out and clasped his hand in hers, looking up at him with a bright and watery smile.

"Oh, but Mr Bell… Do you not see? I can feel!"


	9. Retribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Hi all, just a few things I need you to know:
> 
> \- The story's title has changed to "Foolish Passions" as while writing the last chapter it suddenly hit me that about 75% of my story is about just that. M&M was catchy, but a bit too austenesque for my liking at any rate. 
> 
> -As I said last week, I have been away so chpts 8 and 9 were delayed. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> -I will also be updating on Fridays, as opposed to Sundays, from now on.
> 
> -I am in a bit of a slump-funk writing-wise, so comments and reviews would be especially appreciated this week. 
> 
> -Enjoy!

“I’ve got it!”exclaimed Thornton, “A blackboard, with all the workers’ names. Three columns, to mark three warnings. When all three columns are marked, you’re out.”

“Aye, that’d do.”

The two figures, Master and worker, had been holed up in the former’s office for the best part of the morning. Since taking him on, Thornton had enlisted Higgins to help him conceive of ways to avoid any future unrest amongst the workers, their exchanges often lasting well beyond the hours of the workday. But neither seemed to mind.

The caution with which Thornton first proceeded in their relationship was soon replaced with an almost implicit trust. In a matter of weeks, Higgins had proven himself indispensable to both the mill and the Master in the reparations that had been required following the riot. He had managed to unite the workers, many of whom still harboured a squirming discontent that the strike had dissolved without issue. He also gained the trust of the Irish, his quiet authority staying the resentment of the Milton hands at working alongside those they considered usurpers of what little they had left. 

Beyond all this, Higgins was indisputably a man with his brains about him. He was pragmatic and resourceful; inventive in his thinking and methodological in his work. He clearly took pleasure in challenging the Master, whom he sought to draw out of himself to consider the Mill’s problems from a different, and sometimes unconventional angle. Driven by the same need for survival, and hunger for progress for the city and its industry, the two men soon settled into an easy relationship that extended far beyond the contractual bonds of employer and employee. 

On this particular afternoon they had been deliberating on methods of increasing worker productivity so as to catch up with the orders that were still outstanding, whilst still maintaining the same level of output. This had evolved into a discussion on worker’s rights, particularly in regards to their dismissals. Thus far, it was in the Master’s power to dismiss a worker as and when he thought it necessary, with neither explanation nor compensation at the workers’ disposal. The men sought to redress this imbalance. 

After much debate, they had settled on a system wherein a worker would receive up to three warnings for slow or shoddy work, after which they could expect to be dismissed. Higgins approved of the idea, but Thornton was still unsatisfied. Fear of repercussions for subpar labour was one thing, but he felt sure there must also be ways of incentivising good work. 

“Per’aps…” continued the Master, “some sort of reward for producing the same quality, but at a quicker rate? Half-day off, with full wages… or something like that.”

“But ‘ow could ye’ afford it?” asked Higgins, surprised.

“Well, if a worker is productive, it would make no difference to me whether the’ work 2 days or one and a half, so long as the output remains the same. What d’ye think?”

“Per’aps... if it wer’ a full day, ‘n at Christmas. Th’ workers’ll be glad o’ th’ extra day’s rest, ‘n production ‘s slow at tha’ time ‘o year anyhow, so ye’ll no’ be worse off.”

“Yes. That would work. We could use two different markings on th’ board. One mark for a warning, and another for a positive report.”

“Sounds good t’ me, Measter.”

Agreed, the two men raised their gazes to look out over the mill yard, mirroring each other. A short, bosomy woman with flaming hair and a beet red face was hurrying across the cobbles as fast as her stout legs could carry her. Midway into the journey, a gust of wind assailed her, and blew her bonnet off her head. She gave chase, and for a moment both men were quite diverted by the spectacle. They turned away from the window once she disappeared into the house, breathless and bonnet in hand. 

“T’were good o’ Mrs Thornton t’ take on tha’ Mrs Cusack.” chuckled Higgins.

Following the strike, Marlborough Mills had found itself with an embarrassment of workers on its hands. Determined to honour his word to the Irish, Mr Thornton had filled all the vacant places in his mill and created as many more as space and payroll would allow. Yet it had not been enough. But, as luck would have it, (albeit not for her), Cook’s eyesight had begun to decline, and the several dishes that returned to the kitchens untouched testified to Mrs Thornton of her need to procure a replacement, and fast.

It had been Higgins that had suggested Mrs Thornton make inquiries amongst the Irish workers if any were trained in cookery. The dire situation in Ireland had pushed many trained men and women to seek employment in England, even if the work they found was far beneath their skill set. And he had been right; Mrs Thornton had discovered not one, but two experienced cooks, as well as several other women fully trained in household service and other occupations. Something had moved her upon seeing the desolation of these women, many of them widows, and with children. She had resolved to draw on her connections to find suitable positions for as many of them as possible. 

“Aye. And she’s found a place for ‘er eldest, up at Mr Miller’s grocery.”

“She’s a good woman, yer mother.”

“That she is.” replied John, with a pride in his voice so discreet it could only be discerned by one who shared his Darkshire reserve. “How’s that other girl getting on? The one that had training as a ladies’ maid or summat.”

“Miss Coyle? Parlour maid, sh’ was. She’s been set up a’ ‘Arkness’, though she’ll be doin’ more scullery work than owt. Friend o’ my Mary’s, sh’ is. Bin’ round our ‘ouse a few times. Clever lass, that one. Ambitious. The’s no knowin’ where sh’ might end up. Jus’ look at tha’ Miss Brown, God rest ‘er soul.”

“Miss Brown?” asked Thornton.

“Miss Brown, sh’ what married Mr Latimer up at th’ bank. She wer’ in service t’ begin wit’. Used t’ work up ‘n one o’ th’ other big ‘ouses, then got job ‘n Lawson’s tea shop. ‘Tis where sh’ met Latimer.”

Thornton fixed his companion with an incredulous stare. Mr Latimer’s dalliances were no great secret to those within his sphere, but John would never have imagined that his marriage would have been the issue of such scandal. 

“How do you know this?”

“My older sister worked ‘n th’ kitchens up at Colthurst’s, when Miss Brown wer’ a scullery maid there. She wer’ impressed by ‘er ambition; determined, sh’ was, t’ marry rich. Said it meant anyone could do it, ‘f only them worked ‘ard ‘nough.'' 

He leaned in towards Thornton, his eyes twinkling conspiratorially, 

“‘tho you ‘n I can reckon, ‘ard work ‘ad little ‘nough t’ do wi’ it, ‘n Miss Brown’s case a’ least!”

Higgins’ saucy humour earned him a smirk from the Master. Although this revelation was most unexpected, Thornton conjectured that he was in no position to pass judgement, as perhaps Miss Brown, or rather, the late Mrs Latimer’s social ascension shared some similarities with his own. There was no shame in working hard to get where one wanted to go. Yet he did wonder at how the Latimers, one of Milton’s first families, had managed to keep such a scandalous secret for all these years. Did Miss Latimer know?

“Measter, beg yer pardon. I hope ye’ know I meant no disrespect regardin’ Latimer... I thought ye’d ‘ave known, what wit’ the close connection ‘twixt yer families ‘n all.”

Thornton shook his head with a smile.

“No ‘arm done, Higgins. I did not know. Miss Latimer is my sister’s friend, ‘n my banker’s daughter. We share no connection other than that.”

The subject of Mr Latimer’s scandalous marriage was still at the forefront of John’s mind as he returned to the house to take lunch with his Mother and sister. His presence had been requested, and as he crossed the threshold he cursed himself when he heard a now familiar bird-like peal of laughter ring out from the sitting room. He might have known. With one last roll of his eyes he schooled his features into something that was not quite a scowl, and entered the room to greet his family, and their guest.

“Miss Latimer, how do you do?”

“I am well, Mr Thornton. I am pleased you were able to join us for luncheon, busy as you must be with the Mill.”

John responded with the closest thing to a smile that he could muster. Yet as they sat down to eat, he found himself quite unable to take his eyes off Miss Latimer, although for a completely different reason than was usually the case. She looked well enough, the sky blue of her linen gown complimenting her crystal eyes; the small open-work diamond earrings glinting through the golden ringlets with each dainty motion of her head; her movements and manners as graceful as ever. But today John searched her face for something, anything, that would lend him some perspective from which to digest his most recent discovery. His scrutiny did not escape the young lady, who from time to time would return his look in her own, coy manner.

Other than this the meal passed with neither incident nor conversation of any significance, much to Fanny’s disappointment. In an attempt to draw her brother out from his ruminations, she requested that he accompany them into town to visit the dress-maker’s, after which they would jointly escort Miss Latimer back to her home. John was about to decline, and arrange for a hansom cab, when he beheld on his mother’s face a look he had not received since his boyhood, and one he dared not refuse lest he be sent to bed with no supper. 

And yet after an hour and a quarter at the dress-maker’s, John’s patience began to wear thin. The work day was more than half over, and he had already been away from the mill far longer than was advisable. Even Miss Latimer had lost interest in the displays and, failing to engage him in conversation, had taken the seat that had been offered her by the shop assistant. As ever Fanny was oblivious, completely absorbed in commissioning all of Mrs Joyner’s staff in the unrolling and unfolding and pinning and pleating of the various fabrics she _just had to have_ for her impending trousseau. 

_This is ridiculous!_ thought John, checking his pocket watch for the tenth time, _The engagement isn’t even official yet! Watson’d better get a move on; for before long it’ll be Fanny, not the strike, that’ll push me to bankruptcy!_

A small cough to his left drew his attention

“Mr Thornton. I’m afraid your sister is taking longer than I expected.”

_You and I both..._

“Might I trouble you by accepting the offer you made earlier? To call a cab to take me home? My father will be wondering where I’ve got to…”

“No, Miss Latimer,” sighed John, “I’m sure your father would not approve of you travelling alone in a cab. I will escort you myself, and come back into town to collect my sister.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr Thornton,” she replied brightly, “I believe my father _would_ be displeased at my travelling alone. Perhaps it would be quicker to walk? It is just over the hill, and it is such a lovely afternoon. I’m sure Father won’t mind, I know he trusts you implicitly.”

John nodded, departing unceremoniously to notify the shop assistant that he would be back in half an hour, and that his sister was neither to leave, (nor loot) the establishment until his return. 

As they reached the midpoint of their journey, Anne began to grow desperate that she would not be able to engage the man at all. His replies, while polite, were short and monotone, and he barely met her eyes when he made them. She did not fully understand- at the ball he had been so attentive, and she had allowed herself to relax in the assumption that her charms were finally having the desired effect. 

But now he seemed distant, as if some great part of him was pulling in whatever direction was furthest away from her. She knew she had no claim to his heart, and strongly suspected that he might love elsewhere, although that was, in her estimation, of little matter. Her mother had instilled in her mind the firm belief that _man cannot live on love alone_ ; and that the right men, the best men, those who were truly worth catching, needed something more... _substantial_ to satisfy their needs. But perhaps she had miscalculated in this instance...

Soon they reached the lookout point that lay at the summit of the small hill that separated the town centre from Midsbury. Fatigued from her effort to keep up with his long, merciless strides, she bid him stop and rest for a moment, to take in the view (and catch her breath). They stood in silence, he being disinclined to speak and she- unable to. As she turned to survey her surroundings she caught sight of another person making their way up one of the other hill paths, to whom the ascension did not seem so taxing. 

“There is Miss Hale.” 

John wrenched his gaze from the view and looked wildly about, until it fell on the familiar outline trudging up the steep hill path. Instinctively, he stepped to the side, putting some space between himself and Miss Latimer. 

The gesture did not go unnoticed by the lady, whose mind was hastily concocting a scheme to put this unexpected turn of events to good use. Meticulously she picked her way through the scraps of information she had gleaned from Miss Hale at the ball, and Fanny since, before she spoke. 

“I thought we had seen the last of her at the ball. I was given to understand that she and her father would soon be removing to Oxford.” 

She studied his face for a reaction as he tracked the approaching figure from a distance. 

“Her father leaves for Oxford this week. I am to Crampton to give him my regards before his departure. Miss Hale will remain in Milton, I imagine.” 

“Oh, then perhaps I misunderstood. It must have been London I think, of which she spoke. Of her friends and relations there.”

His discomfited grimace bade her continue.

“Yes, that is it, she goes to London to visit a cousin. And that her father would arrange for a gentleman, oh what was his name? Ah yes, Lennox… _Captain_ Lennox would come to escort her there and back again.” 

John’s eyes flew back to glare at the young lady. With the innocence of a dove she raised her delicate brows and cocked her head questioningly.

“Mr Thornton?”

John opened his mouth to speak words that would not come. They had dissolved, burnt to a crisp by the jealous wildfire that sparked in the depth of his core and spread outwards to the tip of every limb. Lennox the London gentleman was formidable enough an adversary, but Lennox the distinguished Army Captain? What Milton man could compete with that?!

He turned back to the path. Miss Hale seemed unaware of their presence, her eyes trained on the ground as she climbed doggedly uphill. It wouldn’t be long before she came upon them, and there would be no means of escape once she had. 

“Mr Thornton?”

The determination in the usually honeyed tone jolted his attention back to Miss Latimer, whose face was curiously flushed in anticipation. 

“Mr Thornton, although I do not claim to know what has passed between yourself and Miss Hale,” she began, stepping perilously closer to him, “I do believe that it is usually best that we put the past behind us, and look to securing our own future.”

When he made no reply, she continued, clasping his forearm as she looked up at him in reverence. 

“Whilst it would seem that Miss Hale has prospects elsewhere, it is clear that her prejudice against Milton and the greatest and worthiest of its men do her a great disservice.” 

John glanced down to where she held him, then back up to her supplicating expression. The flattery of her words and Margaret’s impending arrival battled for his attention. Still seething with jealousy, he considered the satisfaction, however ephemeral, he would feel at knowing Miss Hale had once again seen him attending to another. And why should he not?

And yet it would not do. He regretted his spiteful treatment of Miss Hale, how he left her standing alone in that great, crowded ballroom. He regretted… so many things. 

_Enough._ He thought to himself, _Enough now._

Resolved, he made to turn back towards the path, and step away once again from his young charge. But Miss Latimer’s craftiness was by no means exhausted. In an instant she turned demonstratively away from him to face the view, and swiftly cried out, pressing the heel of her hand against her eye. 

Success! Mr Thornton turned directly to her and, in the distance, she saw the brim of Miss Hale’s abominable brown hat tip upwards at the sound, as its wearer was suddenly made aware of their presence. 

“Miss Latimer! What has happened?” asked Mr Thornton, “Are you ill?”

“Oh, I...oh! Some small thing is in my eye! Oh it hurts! A speck of dust, or an insect… oh!”

Still holding her face she tottered delicately until she was positioned directly under his towering frame. He bent his head to ascertain the gravity of the situation, some sympathetic instinct propelling his arm to reach around her back to steady her. 

He gently coaxed her hand away from her face, and, neglecting to ask for permission, tipped her chin upwards so he could examine the injury. Detecting no foreign object, he took out his handkerchief to offer to the sudden invalid. 

Gently she padded the area, all the while inclining into him as he stood still bent at the waist towards her. She blinked slowly up at him, silently relishing the genuine concern etched in the creases of his brow. 

“Oh Mr Thornton, forgive me, but are my eyes so very red? I must look quite ghastly! Father will think I have been crying.”

She lifted her face for inspection, and he duly lowered his, searching her crystal blue eyes once again for any damage. 

“No, Miss Latimer, ghastly is not a word that could ever describe you. As for your eye, I can see no spe...”

But no more words could he speak, as just then, an extraordinary thing happened. Taking her courage in her hands, Miss Latimer tilted her head, expertly closing the gap between their two faces. With one quick, hungry rove over his face, she pressed a warm, wet kiss onto his startled lips. 

\---

Margaret stumbled, gripping her hat with one hand and reaching out into the breeze for balance as a patch of mud and stone crumbled underfoot. The ground beneath her slid, and she had no choice but to speed up into a graceless skip lest she trip and fall flat on her face. As if what she had just observed had not been humiliating enough.

The decline began to flatten out as she reached the bottom of the hill, and she took a moment to steady herself against the remnants of a wooden guardrail that stuck up obstinately from a cluster of weeds. Her breathing slowed, and as it did her thoughts began to come into focus. What horrid luck, to run into the two people she had most vehemently hoped to avoid.

She was sure they had not seen her, and was glad of it, although their proximity and the familiarity displayed by walking out together unchaperoned left her feeling quite uneasy. It had been less than a week since Thornton had confessed his feelings for her, and she had realised her own in the same moment. But that was before…

She shook her head, several dark tendrils breaking free and framing her face. Before she had hurt and humiliated him, leaving him no choice but to believe the worst of her. Before he had made a display of despising her. Before he had spat those words so laden with hateful anger that had ironically left Margaret completely convinced of their falsitude. Father had always said that love and anger were two sides of the same coin.

Margaret sighed, and pulled off her brown hat to smooth the rogue locks back into line before replacing it. Perhaps he _had_ been sincere when he had promised to expunge the foolish passion from his heart? And Miss Latimer was to all accounts a more suitable choice, what with her being so _accomplished, attractive_ , and not likely given to wild displays of impropriety. But no, it could not be, no matter what virtues the other lady could boast. Surely such a man as Mr Thornton could so easily transfer his affections. 

Besides, Miss Latimer had cried out, so it was only natural that Mr Thornton attend to her discomfort. Perhaps that was all that it was; chivalry on his part. One could easily believe it. But as she rose to continue her journey back home, Margaret could not ignore the sinking feeling in her belly. It was a dark emotion that clawed its way up to her chest and tightened its grip on her heart, that had only just begun to breathe again. 

\---  
  


“Miss Latimer!” cried Mr Thornton, seizing the lady by the shoulders. “What _are_ you doing?”

“It is quite alright, Mr Thornton,” she smiled, “you do not have to restrain me.”

“But… I… What did you… ”

“Hush,” she pouted, touching a gloved finger to his agitated lips and caressing them sensuously for good measure. 

Unconsciously he leant into the sensation, his eyes darkening slightly before the realisation hit him once more. Vexed by her insolence, he grasped her forcefully by the wrist, and lowered her hand, summoning thunder into all his features.

“Miss Latimer,” he began, his voice low, “must I repeat myself?”

The lady hesitated. She had not seen him like this. She adjusted her strategy.

“Oh Mr Thornton! Do not toy with my affections! I have seen the way you look at me! And you have been so attentive of late.”

At this his expression faltered a little, encouraging her to continue.

“And this… unexpected intimacy. If I have done wrong, then it is only by responding to the great passion I believe I saw reflected in your eyes. Forgive me if I am mistaken, but please, I implore you, do not sport with my heart if I am not!”

It took Thornton several moments to gain his bearings. There was truth in what she said, although her audacity still shocked him. Was this what she had learned at finishing school?

“Oh Mr Thornton, do not tease! The lessons served their purpose, but there are some things that the heart cannot be taught.” 

With a suggestive tilt of her head she continued.

“Besides, it was only a small kiss. The year is 1850, not the dark ages!” 

To this he did not immediately respond, save to raise his eyebrows, check the time and suggest they continue on their way. They walked in brooding silence, a good few feet away from each other, until they turned the corner of Mr Latimer’s town house. 

“Miss Latimer,” he began, his defence ready on his tongue, “I must ask for your forgiveness. It is true that up until today I have behaved ambiguously, possibly even inappropriately in your regard.” 

She was listening attentively, and there was no one in the street.

“I must ask you to please accept my apology, and know that I am truly ashamed of my behaviour, and the wrong impression it appears I have given. I will endeavour in future to act with much more circumspection that I have displayed in our acquaintance so far.”

A smile spread across her face, and she made to reply, but he was not yet finished.

“But you must know that your actions today were scandalous, and reckless. We are fortunate that there were no witnesses to your… _our_ indiscretion. I would be grateful if we could put the matter behind us, and proceed with the honour and propriety to which we were both raised. Do you understand?”

Although the smile retracted into a small, rosebud pout, some of its brightness still lingered about her eyes.

“Yes, Mr Thornton. Honour, and propriety. I understand you completely.”

**\---**

Mr Thornton’s knuckles had barely grazed the door when it swung open to reveal, much to his surprise, Mr Hale, looking positively animated.

“John! There you are! Come in! Come in!” he enthused, pulling Thornton by the hand he had extended in greeting up the last step and into the house. 

The effervescent greeting at an end, the two men stood in the hallway, looking at each other, unsure as to what should happen next. Hesitantly, Thornton removed his gloves and, concealing them in his hat, reached to place it on the side table. Mr Hale observed, chewing nervously on his bottom lip. They resumed their awkward vigil.

“Mr Hale… is anything wrong?”

The old man startled at the sound, as if he had forgotten his object of his answering the door in the first place.

“Yes! I mean no… nothing is… in fact that is why… it would seem that… oh!”

“Mr Hale,” began John, taking his tutor by the elbow, “might we go up to the parlour? I think it would be wise for you to sit.”

Hale did not protest. Obediently he followed Thornton into the parlour, where he sat where he was told and stared off into the distance, a curious smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. His pupil took a seat directly opposite him, and noticed only then the leaves of a letter crumpled in his tutor’s tight fist. The creases made the contents illegible, but the writing appeared to be in a man’s hand. 

“Is Miss Hale in?” 

“Yes… no. Perhaps? No she is out. Visiting friends, or perhaps gone for a walk. She is out”

“Oh.” was John’s reply, the sound betraying neither his relief or disappointment at the fact. 

“She is out…” He repeated.. 

“Yes you said…” replied Thornton, his brow furrowing, “Mr Hale, Richard, forgive my impertinence but has something happened? Is something the matter? I would like to be of assistance, if I can in any way.”

At this his tutor fixed him, again with that curious expression that seemed to be half-hope, and half-regret. He leapt to his feet without warning, and began pacing the room frantically.

“Oh John! How well I know you would like to be of assistance! Indeed your friendship… I know it well! But it wouldn’t do, you see… what with you being a magistrate… well, we could hardly put you in that position… Oh! How deeply we regretted, _I_ regretted not taking you into our confidence… but now… yes… what with the news... although I do not know that Margaret would approve… but surely the risk is no longer so very great… perhaps…”

John watched his tutor’s distress with growing concern, debating whether or not to send for a servant, or better yet Dr. Donaldson. At the mention of Miss Hale’s opinion on the mysterious matter his pride was piqued, and compelled him to interject. 

“Mr Hale! I beg of you! You are not making sense!”

At this Hale halted, sighing as he slumped back down onto the small armchair.

“Yes John, you are right. I am not.” he glanced at his friend, his face clouding over into an affectionate smile. “The thing is… I mean… well, there is something I must tell you.”

Thornton uncrossed his arms and shifted to the edge of his seat, giving the old parson his full attention.

“John, I have a son…”

For the next hour John learned the heroic tale of Frederick Hale- first-born, sailor, and alleged mutineer. He learned of scandal and hangings and perpetual fear, but also of the precious, secret gift that Margaret had arranged as a final benediction for her mother before her passing. He learned of clandestine departures, and weeks of anxious uncertainty, and finally, only this morning, the blessed missive that conveyed to both father and sister that Master Hale was safe and sound back in Cadiz; gainfully employed and engaged to be married in a few short months.

He heard his tutor’s regrets that they had not confided in him sooner. He understood the delicacy of the circumstance, what with him being sworn to the office of Magistrate, and did not blame them for their insistence on discretion. It warmed him to see how keenly his tutor wanted him to be appraised of the situation; to know that his good opinion was considered in such high esteem. Hale’s relief at his son’s report was palpable.

“Can anything be done?”

“Perhaps. We have a friend in London looking into the legal merits of the case. Margaret is really quite hopeful. Oh John! I do feel better now that you know!”

At the sound of a door closing Thornton leapt to his feet. He knew he had but minutes before she appeared. He felt sorely unprepared, and suddenly too tall and awkward for the small Crampton parlour. Every part of him demanded to be thrown prostrate before her; to beg her forgiveness for his abominable behaviour. Had it not been for his rash temper, whatever that small thing was that had taken root as they danced might have stood a chance. 

Soon she appeared, with nothing on her serene countenance to betray the thunderous pounding of her heart as she beheld the man she had resolved to love unrequited, and all of her own doing. 

“Ah, there you are Margaret! Back so soon?”

“I was upstairs, Father. I have not been out today.”

She smiled politely at Mr Thornton, whose only acknowledgement was to gape slightly and shrink several inches in size. 

“Oh, I thought you had gone out.”

Her eyes were red-rimmed and her complexion wan, but to Thornton she had never looked lovelier. The compulsion to hang his head like a chastened dog warred with his need to keep his eyes fixed on her graceful form as she set about preparing tea and attending to their needs. 

“Tell me, my dear, what have you found to occupy yourself with today?” 

Her father’s cheery tone elicited a bemused but nonetheless bright smile from his daughter, who turned instinctively to share it with their guest, before turning away awkwardly. John started in his seat at its disappearance, almost knocking the low table with his knee.

“I’ve been writing some letters to London.” 

“Ah, to Edith, was it? She will be pleased to hear from you. Like sisters they were, John, Margaret and my late Maria’s niece.”

Mr Thornton glanced an acknowledgement in the direction of his tutor, before turning back to Margaret.

“Yes father.”

“And to Henry, no doubt.” added Mr Hale, flashing Thornton a knowing smile.

John’s eyes widened as his gaze bounced from father to daughter, misinterpreting the former’s gesture. His stomach lurched as he noted the blush that suddenly suffused Margaret’s cheeks.

“Who is Henry?” he asked, unable to feign disinterest.

Margaret’s head flew up at the incongruous sound of Henry’s name on Mr Thornton’s lips. She hesitated, opening her mouth to speak, but her father was quicker than she.

“Henry Lennox is a family friend. He and Margaret became fast friends around the time of her cousin’s wedding. Such an affable, genteel young man! He has really always been most attentive, hasn’t he Margaret?”

Margaret chanced a look at Mr Thornton, and felt a strange sort of shameful satisfaction in the tension upon his countenance. 

“Yes Father.”

“Remember how he surprised us at Helstone last summer? I seem to recall the two of you having a most agreeable time. Why, we hardly saw you but with a sketchbook in hand, or heading out, arm in arm, on one of your long country walks.” 

Margaret found herself unable to reply. The growing dismay on Mr Thornton’s face both anguished and amused her in equal measure. She hid behind her teacup, checking her contradicting instincts to both laugh, and lavish reassurances on their distraught guest that there had never been anything more than friendship between Henry and herself. On her part at least.

“I daresay you might get a chance to meet, John. His brother, Captain Lennox, offered to escort Margaret to London in my absence, to be with her cousin and meet their new baby Cosm… er… Sheld... er... oh, what is his name Margaret?”

“Who, father?”

“Edith and Captain Lennox’s boy.”

“Oh. Sholto.”

“Ah yes, Sholto. Scottish, for the grandfather... or great uncle... or some male relative of the sort. At any rate, Henry might well accompany his brother should they come to escort Margaret to London in the next few weeks. You could meet him then, John. Capital fellow! I’m sure they would be greatly interested in Milton and its industry, and eager to talk to an expert such as yourself. What do you say, eh? John?” 

But John said nothing, submerged as he was in a mire of new and contradicting information. Were both Lennoxes, (because apparently now there were two), military men of rank? And did both take an interest in Margaret? Surely not, as one of them, presumably this Maxwell fellow, seemed to be married to Margaret’s cousin. That left Henry Lennox; the _clever, agreeable_ and _genteel_ friend (and captain?) with whom Margaret corresponded with her father’s blessing and whom she addressed by his christian name. 

John said nothing. For quite some time.

“Are you quite well, Mr Thornton?”

Her beloved voice ushered him gently back into the present moment. Both Hales were looking at him in puzzlement, and he was in much too much distress to note the curious twinkle in the lady’s eye. 

“Yes, Miss Hale, Richard, forgive me.” he replied thickly. “Of course, I would be glad to meet any friend of yours. Am I given to understand that Capt...er...Mr Lennox is a man of leisure, then? Or is he a military man like his brother?”

“He is a lawyer, Mr Thornton. He works at the Temple, in London.”

“And a jolly good one too, I believe.” interjected Mr Hale, “At least I hope so, for all our sakes!” he added, with a conspiratorial wink.

Lawyer was undoubtedly a step down from Distinguished Army Captain, but Thornton was painfully aware that it still ranked a good few rungs above Merchant-Manufacturer in the hierarchy of respectable occupations. 

“Yes, I do believe he is skilled in his profession, father. He has the temperament for it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mr Thornton, setting down his teacup with a clatter. 

Margaret took a few moments to consider his question, and his strange reaction to all this talk of Henry Lennox. She studied her inquisitor with an air of bemusement. 

“I mean that Henry… Mr Lennox that is, possesses certain qualities in his character that allow him to be impartial, and objective. These are traits that are indispensable in the practice of the law, to be able to separate oneself from a situation or circumstance entirely.”

“You mean to say he is cold? Unfeeling? Unopinionated?”

_Simple? Balding? Snaggle-toothed?_

“Oh no Mr Thornton!” cried Margaret, “He is, as father says, a most agreeable and cultured young man. But he does not, as a man, possess that innate need to reach out and experience what others are feeling. Empathy, that is the word I am looking for! He does not empathise readily, and is therefore better positioned to defend his clients on an objective basis, rather than a compassionate one.”

“But surely that is a trait that cannot recommend itself to you, Miss Hale,” pressed Mr Thornton immediately, “Surely you could not find such a temperament agreeable, you who are the very soul of compassion.”

At this juncture her father looked up, and finally observed what he had failed to see since almost their earliest arrival in Milton. For a minute he stared at his pupil and friend, before tearing his eyes away to fix his own daughter with the same deliberation. It was now their turn to be unaware of _his_ scrutiny, as they looked at each other, a myriad of feelings telegraphed across their gaze.

“Yes John,” said he, after allowing them a few more moments of transfixation, “Margaret does indeed have a most compassionate heart. It pleases me to hear you say so.”

“Oh no father!” countered she, embarrassed. “Any compassion I have, I have been taught by you and mama! My charity is quite selfish really, as I do not enjoy being idle, and helping those less fortunate is as worthy an occupation as any.”

“Miss Hale,” exclaimed Mr Thornton, a brilliant idea suddenly occurring to him, “Would you allow me to share something I believe will interest you. A little project of my own I would like your opinion on, as I know the cause is one that is close to your heart.”

Intrigued she shifted in her seat, turning her body so she faced his. 

“I am listening, Mr Thornton.”

She startled as he rose and appeared to fill the room with his presence. He located the small satchel he had deposited on the console by the door, and drew from it a thick parchment scroll tied tightly with a length of red twine.

“Mr Hale, have you a desk or table I might make use of. Temporarily?”

Mr Hale pointed to the writing desk that sat directly opposite the door. After displacing the sundry objects that were gathered there, Mr Thornton carefully untied the scrolls and laid them out on the flat surface, securing their corners with a paperweight and couple of books. Once his preparations were complete, he looked up to find Miss Hale still watching him quizzically. Once again the urge to grovel at her feet threatened to overwhelm him, and he looked away and cleared his throat, extending his hand towards where she sat. 

“Come, Miss Hale, if you please.”

She rose to join him, and he bent to study the parchment before him lest his expression betray the great pleasure he procured in observing the gentle sway of her hips as she crossed the room. She stopped when she reached the desk, standing on the other side from where he was. 

“What is it, Mr Thornton?”

“I stopped at the draftsman’s, before coming here. They are plans for a kitchen, Miss Hale. And a dining room. For my workers.”

For a moment she could not speak, but the rounding of her eyes and the slight cock of her head towards him betrayed her most pleasant surprise. Her lips began to quirk upward at the corners, and she looked down, turning her head this way and that.

“I cannot see it.”

“You’ll have to come around to my side of the desk, Miss Hale. If you don’t mind.”

She looked up at him, thrilling at the hopeful entreaty she saw. Without hesitation she stepped around the small table until they stood a mere foot away from one another.

“Show me.”

In an instant they were consumed, she by his eager explanations and he by her genuine awe and approval. Mr Hale rose to join them, he too marvelling at the idea and the plans that had been drawn up. A kitchen and dining hall for the workers, serving one hot meal a day, from ingredients bought wholesale. The scheme ensured that Marlborough Mills had a healthier, and therefore more productive, workforce, but this was not the only advantage. 

By serving lunch in two forty-five minute bouts, Thornton gained a full ninety minutes in which to rotate some of the irish workers in shifts, which he intended to consecrate to their training in the use of his newer and more modern machinery. More than one order had been botched or delayed by the inexperience of the Irish hands, leaving Thornton at a complete loss as to how to remedy the situation. Higgins had suggested training over the lunch hour, and Thornton had been pleased to come up with the idea of rotating shifts to maximise time and resources. 

“Mr Thornton,” declared Margaret, “This is extraordinary!”

His presentation complete, he stood facing her, expectancy in all his expressions. Still immersed in the scheme he had so clearly laid out, she continued to survey the parchment, the figures and annotations presently making more sense. Mr Hale had quietly retreated back to his armchair to watch the pair in an approving stillness so thorough, it quickly transformed into a deep slumber. 

“I’ve even found a trained cook amongst the irish workers, a Mrs Dolarhyde. She once worked the kitchens in Collins Barracks, so she’s no stranger to cooking for plenty. Although I fear she may need an assistant...”

“Mary!” exclaimed Margaret, after a moment’s pause, “Mary Higgins! She is a competent cook, I believe, and is looking for work for only part of the day, as she still has her young cousins in her care whilst Nicholas is at the Mill.”

“That would be perfect.” smiled Thornton, encouraged by her enthusiasm, “Quite the family affair.” 

Margaret turned back to the desk, bending further to take in some of the smaller details of the draftsman’s sketches. Several locks of dark hair broke free from their ties to tumble over her cheek. John longed to reach out and tuck them behind her ear, where he imagined the skin was soft and ripe for the tasting. The graceful curve of her neck as it joined the gentle line of her back was an uncharitable temptation as she stood, her body extended over the parchment. John had to look away lest he forget himself and lay an itching hand upon that inviting slope. She rose again with a contented sigh, and turned to flash him a warm, albeit worn smile. He was cut to the heart.

“Forgive me.”

His voice was strangled, barely audible. 

“For what?” She replied, her smile fading into an expression of concern. 

“For the...” he faltered, his thoughts jumbling into one another, “for everything.”

She gazed up at him, knowing full well her heart would compel her to no other alternative.

“Of course, Mr Thorton.”

In silent reverence they stood, the space between them contracted into nothing as her skirts brushed the tips of his shoes and his arm ached to wrap around her slender shoulders. 

“Might we…” he breathed, so as not to startle the fragile thing that was passing between them, “Miss Hale, might we go back… might we begin again? As friends?”

But just as parted her lips to answer him, a sharp knock at the door jolted her father awake and shattered the tender intimacy of the moment. Unbeknownst to either, both resisted the instinct to step away from the other, and instead looked up in unison at the interloper darkening the door. 

“Ah Thornton! Fancy seeing you twice in one day!”

“Yes,” growled John, resentful of the interruption, “Fancy that, Mr Bell.”

Mr Bell had watched in protective jealousy their heads bent over the table, their quiet complicity speaking volumes as they discussed some idea or other. He would not stand for it. Margaret had suffered enough.

“I stopped at Marlborough Mills this morning to go over some paperwork,” explained Mr Bell, smiling at his groggy friend and coming over to take Margaret’s hand, “How are you my dear?”

“I am well, Sir.” she replied, with a smile and an affectionate squeeze of her own. 

Strangely, as she made to withdraw, he did not release her, exchanging pleasantries with her father as he subtly guided her to circumvent the table. Soon she stood beside him, facing Mr Thornton and his plans on the other side of the desk. Stranger still, he folded her hand into the crook of his arm, and firmly covered it with his own. Mr Thornton mourned the loss of her closeness, and envied her physical contact with another.

“I am afraid I was most lax when we met this morning, Thornton.” 

_Blast! What does he want now? Besides to ruin my chances… jealous old goat..._

“But I have since learned that congratulations are in order…”

_For God’s sake, what is he on about?_

“I’ve just come from the club, I had my usual _tête-a-tête_ with Mr Latimer, and some of the other bankers.”

_Congratulations? Mr Latimer? Oh… Oh no..._

“He was in high spirits, and eager to share the good news...”

_No… she wouldn’t have! She… Surely she understood? Were we not agreed?!_

“Congratulations, my good man! I wish you and Miss Latimer very happy!”

The room began to tilt as all three pairs of eyes fixed Mr Thornton, two in disbelief and one in challenging defiance. For a minute, or maybe an hour, he was at a complete loss. He vaguely heard himself accepting his tutor’s reluctant good wishes, but for the life of him, in that moment, there existed nothing else on God’s good earth besides the beloved face that paled before him, so much so that even the warm blue of her eyes appeared to fade into a hopeless grey. 

As soon as she could, Margaret excused herself and stole upstairs to escape the great flood that threatened to shatter the windows and bring the papered walls crashing down all around her. She took to her room directly, and only emerged the following evening to take tea with Mr Bell and her Father before their departure for Oxford.

  
  



	10. Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers ***PLEASE MAKE SURE YOU'VE READ CHAPTER 9:RETRIBUTION BEFORE READING THIS CHAPTER***
> 
> There seems to have been a problem when I uploaded the previous chapter as the upload date did not update, and I get the feeling the chapter might have been missed by some of you. Also perhaps because of my renaming the story? Who knows... but chapter 9 is key so please make sure you've read it before tucking into this one...
> 
> For those who did read, review and leave kudos, many many thanks! I'm afraid my writing slump-funk continues, so all comments and feedback are especially encouraging at this time. 
> 
> Anyway, voici your next course, for your delectation. Bon appétit, mes chéris...

An alarming shriek rang out over the relative quiet of Marlborough Mills. The cry, in all likelihood the envy of banshees generations over, echoed through the house, tearing down the corridor, piercing the closed door of the dining room. 

“JOOOOOOOHN!” 

The crystal trembled in its cabinet, the window panes shuddered and from the roof, a flock of starlings took flight, terrified by the hellish sound. 

“JOHN JOHN JOHN JOHN JOHN JOHN JOOOOHN! Oh John! There you are!”

Throwing the door open with a bang, Fanny came to an abrupt stop, swaying unsteadily on her feet as she doubled over in an attempt to catch her breath. 

“John! Oh John! I have heard the  _ most _ exciting report, so exciting in fact, that I am willing to overlook your highhandedness in not informing me yourself.”

Still heaving, she straightened up, as her mother came to stand by her side, an eyebrow arched warily.

“But please, please,  _ please _ , say it is indeed so! And make me the happiest sister that ever there was! Oh Johnny… is it true? Can it be true? Have you finally made it official? It cannot be a false report, certainly not! She would not lie, not about something as scrumptious as this! No, it must be true, John, isn’t it so? Oh, why won’t you put me out of my misery and  _ tell me _ ?!”

“Because he can’t get a word in edgeways, child!” scolded Mrs Thornton, “Hush now, let your brother talk!”

Both women turned back to him unbreathing- Mrs Thornton because she would not, her daughter because she could not. 

John looked at their expectant faces. It  _ was _ probably best to get it over with. Yet as he opened his mouth to reply, he found he did not have it in him to actually form the words. 

“Tell me what you have heard, Fanny, and I shall tell you if there is any truth in it.”

“Well,” began she, clasping her hands together and addressing her audience as if it were a packed theatre house, “I have been told, by no other than the lady herself, that you have  _ finally _ given into your true feelings, (and the incredible inducement no doubt) and agreed to make Miss Latimer... your...  _ wife _ !”

Fanny had neglected to draw breath throughout her oration, and doubled over once again, her chest and back heaving. Mrs Thornton looked to her son, her eyes wide and incredulous.

“Is it true, John? Is it so?”

He cleared his throat. There was no going back now.

“Yes Mother. It would appear Miss Latimer and I are engaged.”

His curious turn of phrase did not go unnoticed by his mother, but her reaction was interrupted by another sound, thus far innominate in the English language, that landed somewhere between a squawk and a squeal. 

“Oh John! What a handsome pair you both shall make! Oh, and how happy and merry we all shall be! You and Anne, Watson and I! Oh mother, we simply must commission some portraits, or perhaps we could send for one of those machines? That produce daguerreotypes, to mark the occasion. Perhaps we could have a joint wedding? Oh no, that wouldn’t do, Anne being so… Oh but our children will be the same age! Oh! I could die of happiness!”

With this she wandered off, squeaking jubilantly to herself. Her mother’s gaze trailed after her, as she ordered and reordered things in her mind. When she turned back to her son, he had moved to the window, and was looking out despondently over the yard.

“From the look on your face, I hardly know if it is congratulations or condolences I should be offering ye’.”

“Neither will be necessary.”

She approached him, and had she been of warmer disposition she would have undoubtedly reached out to pat his arm, or rub soothing circles into his slouching back. As it was, she was content to stand beside him, mirroring his posture. 

“Have you formed an attachment to her?”

John sighed, a weary sigh.

“You said yourself it is an advantageous match, to be so closely connected with Latimer. And she will prove suitable enough a companion, I imagine.”

“So you do not love.”   
  


“No Mother. I do not love Miss Latimer.”

“Then why…” Hannah Thornton stopped herself, conscious of the hypocrisy of her reasoning. She had been adamant that Miss Latimer would be the most appropriate choice, but now seeing his dejection, his despair… 

Anne Latimer had in her possession two main attributes that made her, in Mrs Thornton’s eyes at least, a suitable candidate for her son. She was the banker’s daughter, and she was not Margaret Hale. But would that be enough? Would this marriage procure for her beloved son the happiness she wished most fervently for him to know, that she herself had known and still mourned seventeen years after the fact? Suddenly, Hannah Thornton was overcome with doubt.

Something must have happened. Perhaps all the changes at the mill she had heard whispers of were bleeding her son’s coffers dry. Perhaps the orders were still delayed and Mr Latimer was losing patience. Or perhaps he had just determined to turn the page on his infatuation with that obnoxious girl, and was doing his best to secure their future.

“Is there nothing to be done?”

John turned to his mother, surprise written only in the slight raise of his tired brows.

“No. It is too late for that. It has been announced. I must to Latimer’s this very day.”

And so, like a lamb to the slaughter, John Thornton called on Mr Latimer that same afternoon. The man was overjoyed, and showered John with congratulations and reassurances that he had made an excellent choice. After his proposition to wet the engagement’s head was refused, he settled on toasting the event with a large brandy. He did not notice the alacrity with which the spirit disappeared down the younger man’s throat. 

“Ah Thornton! Ye’ve no idea what a boon this is to an old man! To know she’s soon to be off my hands, well and truly! Governesses, nursemaids, private school, finishing school, balls… You can’t imagine what an expense the girl has been to me! You’ll be the envy of all of Milton, for I’ve had more than one request for her hand of late. And you’re sure to have no regrets, especially not on your wedding night! ”

John knew not how to respond. However sorely he felt used by Miss Latimer, a wave of chivalrous instinct swept over him. This was no way for a gentleman to speak about a lady, let alone his own daughter!

He was about to challenge the old man when there was a quiet knock on the door. It opened to reveal the lady herself, her insolent beauty and calm demeanour causing his sense of chivalry to dissolve into a raging indignance. 

“Here she is! My beautiful Anne! Come, come in my dove. I’ll leave you both to it.”

He rose to take his leave, patting his daughter on the cheek as he passed her by. He stopped at the door.

“I say Thornton, you will have a care, won’t you? You have the rest of your life to enjoy my daughter’s delights. We do not want there to be talk, do we Anne?”

Without waiting for a response he shut the door, leaving John gaping after him, insulted in every fibre of his being. What kind of a man  _ was _ Mr Latimer, to treat his daughter (and himself) with so little respect? John was not sure he cared to know, the information currently in his possession already depicted a disturbing tableau. 

“John?”

He started at the sound of his own name, as if it were an insult she had hurled at him.

“Miss Latimer?”

Anne sighed, and lowered herself gracefully onto a chair, inviting him to do the same. Warily, he complied, fixing her as one would some small but venomous animal.

“I daresay you might call me Anne.”

“Miss Latimer will do for now.”

“Very well.”

They sat in silence for a moment. He did not remove his eyes from her, as her own travelled about the room, and the floor, searching for the best way to begin.

“Mr Thornt… John,” she corrected, “I understand that things have taken an unexpected turn, and perhaps not in the direction for which you were prepared.”

John scoffed.

“But I want you to know that truly, sincerely, I do believe this is for the best. I have wanted this for a long time, longer than even you realise, and I am sure I will make a good wife for you. We are quite matched in wealth and station, and I know you have not always been immune to my… charms. And as for the rest, I can only hope that in time, you will come to see how very determined I am to please you, in any way that I can.”

John grit his teeth.  _ Station, wealth, charms.  _ What cared he for such things? 

But he had to concede that their predicament was not entirely of her fault. He had willingly cast his lot in this dangerous, impulsive game and lost, and now it was time to reap the consequences. If it were to be so; if they were to be married, it would hardly do to begin their relationship on quarrels and resentment. 

John sighed, as he had been wont to do over the past forty-eight hours. Reluctantly, he girded his temper and schooled his features into some semblance of neutrality.

“Miss Latimer,” he began, “what is done is done. I have no wish to revisit the events of the past that got us into this unusual situation, now that there is no hope of either of us escaping it. I too am determined to do my duty by you, to whom my honour now binds me. I have no intention of treating you with anything other than the respect and consideration that would become any young lady of your position.”

He then paused, and sat upright in his seat. Leaning forward on his knees and clenching his fists unconsciously, he dropped his voice to a low, feral growl. Anne shivered at the sound.

“Although I should warn you, I am known for my temper, as you might have already heard. And I will only say this once: I do not take kindly to being made out for a fool. If I ever again find myself on the receiving end of one of your schemes, I shall not be so forgiving. Do I make myself clear?”

Quaking a little, Anne nodded her assent.

Once the needful had been addressed, neither saw any need to prolong the awkward interview any longer. Anne showed Thornton to the door, and artfully hid her disappointment at his evasion of her enquiry as to when he would call again. In one last, desperate attempt to engage him she extended her hand palm downwards, a clear invitation for him to plant a kiss there. He glanced down at the delicate appendage, then up at her hopeful face, before swiftly rotating her hand at the wrist and shaking it, as he would have one of his business associates.

As he quitted the Midsbury townhouse Thornton’s mind turned once again to Margaret. The memory of her pale, disbelieving face had robbed him of the sleep he had hoped would strengthen him in the face of the day’s challenges. It was too late. He had been well and truly caught in every sense of the term, and what little honour he felt he had left forbade him from rushing straight to Crampton to explain the unfortunate circumstances to the she that he feared they had hurt the most. 

He stubbornly resisted the instinct to fight against this injustice, submitting himself to the Gods of love who sported with his passions and punished his foolishness by condemning him to his fate. He had always known that Margaret deserved far better than he could ever hope to offer her, and in some perverse way there was a relief in knowing that Miss Latimer’s actions had effectively put an end to the damage he could wreak on her heart, or whatever small part she had begun to grant him access to. She would be better off without him.

But here Thornton was mistaken. It was her whole heart, not some small part, that now called him  _ Master _ \- a fact to which her tear-soaked bed covers and full two days’ fast testified. She had managed to rally her spirits in time to bid an affectionate farewell to her father and godfather before their departure for Oxford. 

Once they had left, and she had found herself alone in the small, Crampton house, an overwhelming feeling of resignation had come over her. Her mother was gone, her father away, her brother was safe, and the man she loved had asked for her forgiveness, (no doubt to clear his conscience in light of his own impending nuptials to a far more deserving lady than she.) Whatever it was that Mr Thornton had once felt for her was dying out, extinguished by her own wantonness, pride and deceit. There was nothing more to be done.

No, that was not quite true. There was plenty to be done! Mother’s things still had to be packed away, Mary would need help with the Boucher children, especially now she would be spending part of the day working in the new kitchen up at Marlborough Mills. Henry had written requesting some more details regarding Frederick’s case; and Father’s books were in a state of complete disarray. She hoped to use his absence as an opportunity to come up with some system that would permit his young pupils to more easily locate the volumes they would borrow from time to time. 

Nay, there was plenty for her to be getting on with. Alone and unloved she might be in the world, but idle and a burden she would never become. 

**\---**

“Could I interest you in another ginger snap?”

After an informal meeting with Latimer, Anne had insisted her betrothed stay for tea. They sat in Latimer’s parlour unchaperoned, as had become their habit over the past few weeks.

“No thank you, Miss Latimer.”

At his formality the lady huffed, and set down the dish with a clatter.

“John Thornton! You seem to delight in vexing me! Over a month we have been engaged, and still you insist on calling me by my family name! What will you call me when we are married, I wonder?”

“Mrs Thornton, I imagine,” replied he, smiling facetiously at his own obtuseness. 

She sighed and rolled her eyes theatrically, a look of tickled exasperation pulling at her fine features. John chuckled. The tension between them had turned almost playful, a product of the inevitable familiarity that comes about when any two people spend enough time in each other’s company. 

He had not seen Margaret since that evening at Crampton, almost two months ago now, and in his determination to release her and himself from whatever it was that bound them to each other, he had endeavoured to avoid her company completely. And he had found, much to his surprise, that it’s substitute was not so terrible as he had first imagined. Anne was a clever, sometimes witty girl, who shared his taste for classical literature and philosophy, even if she had very few original opinions of her own. He often thought that under any other circumstances they might have even been friends. 

And she was still nice to look at, although as the weeks went by John found that her allurements appealed only to the basest of his instincts, which always left him feeling slightly disgusted with himself. When they were alone her provocative swaying and sashaying and coy bending over him elicited a need that was primal, not passionate or affectionate in any way. This was not the colour he would have wished this chapter of his life to be.

“What address did your parents use?” he enquired. 

He had been trying to conceive of a way to determine the truth in Higgins’ account of Miss Latimer’s parentage, and the extent to which the young lady herself was aware of the alleged scandal surrounding her conception. So far, he had had little opportunity, sensitive as the subject was.

“Hmm… I do believe my father called Mama by her christian name, or  _ ‘Old girl’ _ , which she wasn’t overfond of. But I distinctly remember Mama calling him  _ ‘Latimer’ _ or  _ ‘Mr Latimer’ _ , or  _ ‘Sir’ _ .”

“ _ Sir _ ?” he remarked, “How… unconventional.”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I suppose you are right. I had never given it much thought.”

“It would be akin to my wife calling me  _ ‘Master’ _ ” he continued, more to himself than anything.

“Would you like me to address you thus?” 

She studied his face to see if he had registered her saucy suggestion. He turned in surprise.

“I am sure Mr Thornton will be fine.”

She sighed once again as she reached to refresh his teacup.

“Perhaps if I were to call you  _ Master _ you might deign to show me some of the affection you so readily lavish upon the hands in your mill.”

He cocked his head in question.

“All those provisions you’ve put in place for them. They must be costing us a fortune. The kitchen, the food, now talk of a doctor’s fund… Would that you were so concerned for the wellbeing of  _ all _ those in your care.”

Piqued, John shifted in his seat.

“Not that I would have any idea what to do with a kitchen, mind you. Why, I don’t believe I have ever seen the kitchens here at Midsbury Road!”

“I can assure you,  _ Miss Latimer _ , that the provisions I have put in place at  _ my _ mill are costing  _ you _ nothing. As of yet, there is no  _ us _ , in the financial sense at least.”

Eyes wide, she opened her mouth to retort, but he cut her off, his words dripping with disdain.

“And I do not appreciate the insinuation that I have been neglectful of my duties. My mother and sister want for nothing, and my workers are taken care of. And despite the unusual circumstances into which  _ you _ have thrust us, I cannot conceive that  _ you _ can have any cause for complaint.”

He rose to his feet, his anger rising with him, the sudden motion startling Anne to the edge of her chair. 

“I call at your request, I walk out with you at your fancy. I accompany you to town, on errands, to social functions. You have had all but my undivided attention these past weeks, even today I have left the Mill, and stayed at your behest, (on market day no less!) to discuss this blasted recital you and my sister seem adamant to attend. I do not think I can be accused of having shirked my duty as a fiancé.”

He had been pacing up and down like a caged beast, and only noticed that Anne had risen too when he felt a gentle hand staying his gesticulating arm.

“Forgive me.” She honeyed.

Thornton sighed. He knew he owed her an apology, for raising his voice and behaving in such an ungentlemanlike manner, but he found it quite beyond his strength to offer one. Instead he capitulated as she gently guided him back to his chair, and scarcely allowed his surprise to mark his countenance as she settled herself on his lap. 

“Forgive me,” she cooed again, stroking his hand until it unfurled from the tight fist it had been held in. 

In such a compromising position Thornton had little option but to look up at the rare creature that was sate upon his lap. Her eyes roved over his face, lingering on his lips before travelling up to his eyes where they telegraphed her regret. She had not meant to offend him, God knows, she had thus far been so careful. But she had overplayed her hand in voicing her resentment, and incomprehension of her fiancés experimental ventures in his mill. She would have to remedy this. And fast.

Her hand crept up his arm, pressing the wool jacket gently as it climbed, before coming to rest on his shoulder. Deep down, a small part of her thrilled at the broad expanse of muscle she felt tense in response beneath. Slowly, seeking silent permission with her eyes, she tilted her head and met his lips with her own, pressing her apology into the wary softness there.

John froze at the contact. Her lips were gentle and coaxing, and her warmth and rosewater scent heady and welcoming. He relaxed a little as she continued her explorations across his cheek, dipping down below his ear, and shivered as her warm breath tickled the top of his neck, barely accessible over the starched collar of his cotton shirt. The reptilian part of him gave into the sensation, clouding his mind from all reason; but another, smaller part held back, resisting every onslaught as she eagerly returned her attention to his mouth. 

Her kisses were soft and her caresses inviting. But as her ministrations grew in passion, that small part responded in kind, growing in strength and volume, and turning his stomach in revolt.

_ Stop! _ it rebelled,  _ This isn’t right! _

Heeding its protestations, John shifted upright in his seat, causing the young lady to slide further down his lap until she was perched on his knee. This broke their embrace, and she regarded him quizzically, a crimson flush belying her embarrassment at being thus rejected. He gripped her at the waist and gently set her to stand, extricating himself from under her opulent skirts. 

“John?”

“Miss Latimer…” he began, running an anxious hand through his hair and down the front of his clothes, before looking up to meet her gaze.

Her injured expression was disheartening. John felt like the worst kind of cad.

“ _ Anne _ ,” he corrected, noting a slight brightening of her eyes, “there will be plenty of time for this sort of thing once we are married. I do not wish to further complicate things before that. Just look where such behaviour landed us in the first place.” 

“Yes, of course John.” she replied, studying the carpet with some intensity. “I merely wished to make amends.”

“There is no need.” he reassured gently, “especially not in that manner.”

At this she looked up, her expression crisp and questioning. John stiffened at the sight of it. He had not the energy to fight any more of her advances or field any more of her questions. 

“I have stayed too long. I must be getting back. I will come for you on friday, seven o’clock. Fanny and Watson will meet us at the concert hall.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but once again he cut her off.

“Please, do not trouble yourself, I shall see myself out. I bid you good day.”

With that he fled, leaving Anne staring after him, blushing and bemused. She did not understand. It was evident that she should avoid voicing her true opinions on the running of the mill and his charity towards his workers. But even with these precautions in place, she still felt like she was grappling for purchase on an unbroken horse. What was she to do? How could she possibly secure him, or indeed ensure he remained secure, if he would persist in resisting her advances? 

Slumping back gracelessly onto the armchair, she let out a loud, unladylike huff. Eyeing the abandoned tea tray on the table, she lifted the dish of biscuits to her lap and began to plough her way through them, finding comfort in their stodgy sweetness. 

_ Perhaps Mama was mistaken _ . She mused, savouring the shortbread in particular,  _ Perhaps the way to a man’s heart isn’t always through his trousers... _

\---

The sound that escaped John’s throat as he trudged back to Marlborough Mills was similar in its sentiment to his fiancée’s. Once inside, he squirmed out of his hat and coat, throwing them haphazardly to the ground as if they had caused him great offence. He felt itchy all over, as though the memory of Miss Latimer’s touch had been branded into his skin, and now burned with infection. It was unbearable. No matter how much he tried to reconcile his predicament in his mind, every physical (or emotional) contact between the two of them left him feeling like one of his poorest hands on the eve of bathing day.

“Jane,” he called to the young maid crossing the corridor before him, “please let Gisborne know I’ve returned.”

John hardly ever troubled his valet, being long in the habit of fending for himself. But with his rise in station and wealth a valet had been thrust upon him, although in truth Mr Gisborne spent as much time seeing to the household as he did attending to his Master. But tonight Mr Thornton would be requiring some assistance. 

When the greying, Nottinghamshire man appeared, he received his instructions to collect the mill’s ledgers and the day’s correspondence from the office, and bring them upstairs to the study that adjoined the Master’s room. Whatever delights Mrs Cusack had confectioned for the evening’s repast were to be arranged on a tray so that John could make up for the time he had lost in calling on his fiancée. His Mother was to be informed, and he was not to be disturbed. He had neither the stomach nor the patience to face anybody else today. 

“And Gisborne,” he called after the man’s disappearing form, “I think I might need you to draw me a bath.”

\---

Many miles away, in a comfortable, leather and walnut clad study in Oxford, Mr Hale and Mr Bell were spending their evening reminiscing about the past, avoiding the present and, on occasion, speculating about the future. 

The six-week sojourn seemed to have done Richard Hale a world of good. Colour had returned to his cheeks, and a spritely, almost youthful spring to his characteristic, ambling steps. Mr Bell was pleased. He had known all along that what his friend needed most was to get away from it all… 

If only his goddaughter’s predicament were so easily resolved. 

“It would make me much easier to know she were settled. With a place to call home, surrounded by family, and friends.” said Hale regretfully, “You know, the other evening, I had almost begun to believe there was something to what you suggested before… between John and herself.”

“Ah, yes…” replied Bell, looking down at his own hands as he twiddled his thumbs nervously, “but it seems I was mistaken. Besides, it is not as if Thornton has a great deal to offer her, goddess incarnate that she is!” 

Hale rolled his eyes at his companion. “You forget yourself Adam! That is my daughter you are speaking of! And one of my dearest friends!”

“Oh I know, I know! And I could hardly blame him. She is such a bewitching creature! Would that I were ten years younger…”

“ _ Ten _ years younger? Try twenty, my good man! You also forget that you are two years  _ my _ senior!”

“Pish, what does age matter when such inducements are to be had… No come… come now Richard, do not take offense. You know I am not in earnest! Margaret is a remarkable girl and I am sure you shall soon see her married and showering you with grandchildren.”

But Richard Hale had retreated into his thoughts, his uncharacteristic silence perplexing his old friend.

“Come now! Let’s have none of that! Margaret will be well looked after whatever happens. By you, by her future husband (the lucky devil!) and, should anything happen, by me.”

At this Hale raised his eyes to meet his friend’s reassurances.

“So you stand by your idea? That Margaret will be taken care of, should anything…”

“Yes yes!” interrupted Bell, feigning impatience to mask his discomfort, “I have already made the arrangements. It is all settled.”

\---

The week passed with the same dreadful monotony as its predecessors since the engagement began. Before John knew it, Friday was upon him, and Williams had come for the instructions on the weekend’s operations, as the mill had been commissioned with two of the largest orders they had received since the taking on and training of the Irish hands. 

John was restless. He told himself it was the mill, the aftermath of the strike, and the pressures of keeping up with expansion and the experiments he and Higgins had put in place. But he knew it was not so. His agitation stemmed from his soul being starved of what it most required and force fed that which he was beginning to abhor. This state was compounded by an almost perpetual fatigue, as his nights of late were disturbed with dreams that all followed the same recurring pattern, and left him bereft and miserable in their wake:

He was in a room, in a house, sometimes his own, sometimes Crampton, sometimes the hovel he and his mother had occupied after his father’s demise. He was hurt, sometimes badly wounded, although the reason for the injury was never of much significance. He sat on a bed, or an armchair, or the floor, and awaited the arrival of his makeshift nursemaid.

Then she appeared, in all her glory, dressed in a day dress, or evening gown, or wedding dress, or shift. She knelt before him, smiling brightly, humming a tune, tending to his wound. She looked up at him, sat beside him, sat on his lap, or drew him to his feet. And then they embraced, and for a moment his body knew bliss, his heart knew peace and his soul found its home. 

Then suddenly she stilled, and the kiss turned bitter. Sometimes she bit him, sometimes she froze over, sometimes her lips crumbled into dust against his mouth. But every time, in every arrangement, when he pulled away, it was no longer she. He was faced with cold, crystal eyes and bouncing golden curls, crying hysterically or laughing maniacally, and pulling him back into an unwanted embrace with a force his injured body could not withstand.

He was revisiting the previous evening’s nightmare as he prepared to quit the mill early enough to change and hail a cab to Midsbury. He wore on his face an expression so sour as he left his office, that the workers scattered with greater alacrity than they had been used to of late. Only one figure remained, wringing his hat in his hands, daunted not by the Master’s countenance, but by the cruel task set before him. 

“Measter,” called the man.

“Higgins! What is it?” 

He hoped it wasn’t another mistake on this weekend’s orders or, worse yet, a problem with one of the looms. Porter, his mechanic, was away for a few days, and John did not trust anyone else with his expensive machinery. 

“Forgive m’ fo’ takin’ th’ liberty t’ seek ye’ out, Measter, but I think ye’d ‘ave wanted t’ be informed.”

Thornton frowned, his mind racing through the catalogue of things that Higgins might be appraised of that would be to  _ his _ interest. 

“‘tis Mr Hale, sir. Miss Marg’ret’s father. I only jus’ seen Mr Bell ‘n th’ street.”

“What is it?! What has happened?!”  _ Surely the fates could not be so cruel! _

“‘E’s dead. Died two day ago. Up ‘n Oxford, ‘n ‘is sleep.”

“And Miss Hale?” pressed John immediately “What of her?”

“That b’ it, Measter. Mr Bell come t’ inform ‘er ‘imself. But I fear sh’ dun got much ‘n th’ way o’ friends tha’ could comfort ‘er at this difficult time. I’d go meself,” he added, “but who’d take care ‘f th’ children, what wit’ Mary still up ‘n kitchen.”

The shock that had pulled John’s features wide across his face disappeared in an instant, replaced by a fierce look of determination that contracted his brow into a ridge of particular severity. With a curt nod, he conveyed all that was needed, and raced off immediately in the direction of Crampton. 

In a matter of minutes he was at the door, breathless but emboldened by the urgency of his purpose. He knocked several times before the door creaked open, and a pair of unseeing grey eyes peered out.

_ Where is Dixon?  _ He remarked to himself,  _ Where is Bell? Where is the maid? _

He found that no words of greeting were required, as Margaret hardly acknowledged his presence other than to step aside and gesture silently for him to come in. She watched him with dreamlike detachment, never meeting his eyes as he removed his hat and outer coat and placed them on the table. When he was finished she looked around, as if at a loss as to how to proceed. Her eyes fell on the stairs, and she began her ascent with neither a word nor an expression with regards to whether he should follow her. 

They stood in the study, facing each other, the silence still unbroken. Although her comforting scent and the familiar surroundings were a boon to his senses, he was stricken with grief not just for his old tutor, but for his own beloved Margaret. It seemed that she too had vacated her body, driven out of it by this great sadness that had left a pale, empty shell in her stead. She looked so small, so frail. He hardly recognised her.

With a will of iron he held his whole person in check so as not to give in to his longing to fold her into the warm embrace of his arms, to nestle there in the shelter of his great love, as if he could shield her from the suffering she had come to know in this terrible city of his. Only his eyes reached out to her, as they roved desperately over her person, stopping to rest on her colourless, empty face.

Margaret stared off to her right, her eyes too weary to meet his searching gaze. The shadows on the periphery of her vision blurred his figure, making it one with their dancing haze. She heard his voice as it cut through the silence, now a muffled rumble of thunder, as if it were calling to her from some small space, locked up in some small box, very far away from her.

“I came as soon as I heard. Miss Hale, I am deeply sorry…”

_ Say something. He was Father’s friend. He has come to offer his condolences. _

“Have you anyone who can attend you? Higgins mentioned Mr Bell brought the unfortunate news. Is he here?”

_ He is asking you questions. Pertinent ones. Tell him Mr Bell has gone. Tell him Dixon is away. Tell him there is no one. Say something.  _

“Miss Hale?”

_ There is no one. Say something. _

“Are you alone? Miss Hale? Can you hear me?”

_ Say something! _

“I am alone, Mr Thornton, as you see.” 

Her words were whispered, and hollow. Devoid of pertness or indeed, feeling of any kind. 

Thornton was at a loss. He felt helpless, powerless, his great might measuring naught before the suffocating sorrow that engulfed them. She did not want to sit, nor walk, nor take water or tea, nor any other refreshment he could think of. He took no offense to her monosyllabic responses, but her inability to look him in the eye or indeed, even acknowledge his existence after several moments made him anxious. 

Glancing around the room, he took in the piles of books and papers strewn over the desk and several of the armchairs. 

“Mr Hale was a great lover of books.”

The remark, made to himself more than anything, seemed to rouse Miss Hale out of her stupor. Her eyes snapped up to fix his own, before casting about the room to identify that to which he was referring.

“Yes… yes, Mr Thornton. He was indeed!” She moved towards the desk, which had the greatest monument of leatherbound volumes arranged haphazardly upon it. She gestured enthusiastically for him to join her.

“Father always loved books. I have scarcely known him to be without one. When I was a small child, upset at having been sent away to live in London, it was my greatest comfort to hide away in the library, surrounded by my Aunt and Uncle Shaw’s oldest volumes. I cannot tell you why, except perhaps that it was their smell, you must know it, Mr Thornton, that smell of ink, and dust and paper, that was a great comfort to me, because it reminded me of Papa.”

As she rambled she ran her hands over the volumes, picking one up and brushing her thumb through the pages. Mr Thornton was pleased to see her suddenly active once more, but there was something in her manner, some sort of unnatural electricity, that was disconcerting. 

He had no need or in fact, opportunity to respond, as Margaret kept on talking with increasing speed and vigour. She flitted here and there, bringing this volume or that for his inspection, and always accompanied with an anecdote about the book’s origins, or some fate that had befallen it while in her father’s care. She smiled and laughed and shook her head at the memories, and John could not help but relish the sight, as strange and inappropriate as it seemed given the circumstance.

After a while she fell silent, abruptly concluding the story of how  _ Aesop’s Fables _ had ended up half chewed by the neighbour’s goat back in Helstone. Her earlier despondency had returned, and so Mr Thornton, who had not left his post by the desk, instinctively reached out a reassuring hand towards her. She took it, unthinking. He thrilled at her touch.

“What will become of them now?” She said after some considerable silence. 

“Become of whom?”

“The books! Father’s books! Where will they go? What am I to do with them?”

He did not respond. So numerous were the concerns that battled for his attention, the fate of his tutor’s book did not even feature.

“You must have them!” she exclaimed brightly, “Yes, yes of course! You once mentioned how you wished your library were better stocked with such as these.”

“Miss Hale, I am not sure…” he began in protest. He was cut short by a pleading squeeze of the hand he still had not relinquished.

“Oh please, Mr Thornton! Father is so fond of you! I am sure he would want nothing more than to know his dearest possessions were safe in your capable hands!”

Turning to face her companion, she looked up at him beseechingly, not knowing how keenly he felt her words. 

“Please, it would be such a comfort to know my father’s books have gone to a good home. I could not bear to be parted with them to any other person. I implore you, Mr Thornton, do not deny me on this score!”

All too aware of the soft hand still clasping his, while the other (unconsciously no doubt) was pressed against his arm, Thornton summoned every drop of his restraint to looked down at her face, which was a mere duck of the head away from his own. Her eyes were dark and her lips swollen, and tilted up towards him invitingly. Her once pale cheeks were suddenly coloured with the pretty flush she had worn the night they had danced together. He swallowed thickly. 

“Of… of course. I would not wish to deny you anything, Miss Hale.”

A minute ticked by, or maybe two. Long enough for the reality of his current circumstance to assert itself in his mind. Reluctantly, he looked away. 

“I thank you for such a gift,” he said, twisting out of her grasp but retaining her hand. “I will treasure every one, as I will the memory of your father. He was a good friend to me.”

He chanced a glance back at her to find her frowning at him, something akin to hurt in her expression. Eventually her eyes dropped to where their hands were joined. 

With sudden realisation she wrenched her hand out from his grasp, and clasped it to her breast protectively. Swiftly she turned away, crossing the room until the papered wall bid her go no further. Turning back towards him, her eyes roved up and down his person, her face twitching as though she were silently arguing a thousand things at once. She cast her eyes down to the carpet underfoot. Hurt, longing, embarrassment, indignation- a myriad of feelings chased each other across her countenance as John watched on in helpless silence.

“You should not be here, Mr Thornton.”

Her v0ice was low and monotone, devoid of emotion and smacking of duty. As she raised her gaze, her features contracted in preparation for the tears that had not yet received their cue to fall. He felt the electricity evaporate, replaced by a dull, miserable ache that crept outwards from her person like some twisted, suffocating vine. He could not bear it. He stepped towards her.

“You should not be here, Mr Thornton!”

Her words were suffused with feeling, but whether it was born of her emphasis on their meaning, or from her great sorrow that threatened to flood the room, neither knew. She wrapped her arms about her person. He stepped closer still.

“You should not be here...”

Her voice faltered. Her tired, grey eyes burst their silken dams, their charge rushing down her face, falling like raindrops and mottling her skirts with flecks of shadow. He was but two steps away from her. Still she did not move. 

“Mr Thornton, you…”

Alas she could protest no further, as a desperate wail tore from her throat, contorting her features and setting her shoulders to violent convulsing. He closed the gap between them, swiftly gathering her into himself as her body shook and spasmed with each guttural sob. She did not protest.

“Mr Thorn…”

There they stood, for how long neither could say. There he held her, encased within the safety of his arms and his own grief at losing the man he had come to consider as his mentor and close friend, perhaps even some approximation of a father. He would not leave her alone in this chamber, heaving with shadows and despair. Trembling hands stole up his chest to take purchase on his lapels, and he bent his head to her hair as she pressed her tear-soaked face into his starched-cotton warmth. There was sweetness, in amongst the agony. In her nearness, and her natural need of him. 

After a time she stilled, and he felt her body go limp against him. Collecting her off the floor and into his strong arms, he scanned his surroundings. Spinning around deftly, he deposited her warm weight on the chaise longue, and released her long enough to retrieve a mismatched burgundy futon, that he attached to the end of the seat, transforming it into a makeshift daybed. 

With his eyes trained on the ceiling, in an attempt to detach himself from what he was about to do, he reached under the tangle of skirts and took purchase on her slender calves, that were curled awkwardly underneath her. Thus he positioned them so that she was reclining more comfortably, her legs stretched out, and a cushion under her head. He retrieved a warm blanket from the adjoining parlour, and draped the covering over her, carefully tucking it into the places he imagined she might feel a draught. 

Then he pulled up an armchair and settled into it, picking up a volume that would remain unopened for the rest of the night. He was content to watch her, to watch over her, protect her in this small way that had been granted him. The devil himself could not remove him from his post. Only when the thud of the book hitting the floor jolted him awake did he realise that his weariness had gotten the better of him.

She startled at the sound, and so he slid silently to his knees to check on his patient. Her head was tucked into her neck, and he could just make out the fine crescents of her eyelashes that rested in the darkened shadows under her eyes. She shifted slightly, extending her right arm beyond the chaise so it hung low, almost touching the floor. As she did, her fine silver bracelet escaped her weight, and slid down the slender length, stopping at her wrist with a small, oscillating motion. 

“There... it goes again.”

It was a murmur so quiet, that had Thornton not been within inches of her lips, he would not even have heard it. As it was, he heard nothing else, the four words instantly transporting him to the hope and the moment that had haunted the periphery of his mind for the longest time, but had never fully materialised. A patchwork memory so captivating he had convinced himself it could only have been a dream. 

As he returned to his earthly body, he saw that she had fallen back to sleep. Perhaps she had never truly been awake, and those familiar words were the product of some somnolent conversation she was engaging in. Still, the feeling lingered that it was wrong, it was all so wrong, it had all gone wrong and he had missed his chance and now… now it was too late. 

He allowed himself the luxury of touching a tender hand to her pale cheek. She turned towards the warmth, and Thornton felt his heart cleave in two. Pressing his brow against her own, he whispered to her sleeping form.

“Oh Margaret, my Margaret, no one can tell what you are to me! Asleep as you lie there…the only woman I ever loved! Oh Margaret, Margaret, would that that wretched kiss had never happened!”

For the briefest of moments, her eyes opened, and she fixed him with recognition, and a rueful upturn of her mouth. Then again she was gone, pulled back under the cover of grief and exhaustion. Thornton gathered his feelings back into himself, before resuming his seat and his silent vigil in the comfort of the armchair.

  
  



	11. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Thank you all for your readership, comments, reviews and FB! They are all so appreciated. The Funk/Slump continues, exacerbated by the return of C19 symptons from when I caught the damn virus in March/April. I hope this next chapter and my little story brings you all some enjoyment in these hard times.

The scratching sound of a key fumbling in a lock was enough to rouse Mr Thornton out from his light slumber. He sat up straight, twisting his head right and left, the tightness about his neck and shoulders dissipating with a gratifying _crack_. After a quick glance at his sleeping charge he rose to his feet, and set off quietly in search of the noise.

He crept down the stairs, past the undisturbed entrance, and down into the corridor that lead to the kitchen. In the grey light of the breaking dawn he could just make out the small figure of Mary Higgins letting herself in the back door. Unsuspecting, she set her things down on the chair, and leapt several inches in the air when she turned to face all six foot three of the Master of Marlborough Mills.

"Mr Thornton!"

"Beg ye' pardon. Didn't mean to frighten you."

Clutching her breast, she took a moment to catch her breath, nodding that her forgiveness would be forthcoming, once she had recovered.

"I've come t' check on Miss Marg'ret." she explained, pausing to survey his person, "was ye' 'ere all night, Measter?"

"Yes Miss Higgins," he replied directly, taking no offense. He knew there was no guile, only genuine affection in her enquiry. "Miss Hale slept through, and I sat up in the armchair. She is still asleep, but I must be off to the mill. I will make arrangements for her care this very morning."

"Oh, ye' needen' worry 'bout that, Measter. I tol' Miss Dolarhyde I'd not be in t'cook this mornin', 'n Miss Quirk down the way's lookin' afte' th' children, so I'm free t' attend t' Miss fe' today.

Thornton smiled. Remarkable girl! And what relief to know Margaret would be in good hands in his absence.

"I bes' b' gettin' on then, Measter." she continued, encouraged by his expression. "Per'aps ye' should go roun' back. Ye'll b' less likely t' b' seen."

"Yes, good idea. I will return later today. Send word to Marlborough Mills if ye' have need of anythin', for Miss Hale's comfort, or your own."

Mary blushed, unused to such kindness.

"Aye, Measter, I will."

On the way home Thornton stopped to leave a note with Dr Donaldson's housekeeper. He wished the physician to attend, in case Margaret's weariness did not abate and she required the administration of some fortifying tonic, or any other treatment. All bills were to be sent to the mill, along with as detailed a report as the Doctor could provide on the patient's progress.

After crossing the gates into the mill yard, he circumvented the house and jogged down the stairs until he reached the servant's entrance to the kitchens. Here he found himself once again obliged to apologise for frightening Mrs Cusack and her maids who, in their great surprise, upset a whole pot of bubbling porridge onto the freshly polished floor.

Once order had been reinstated, (a still trembling) Mrs Cusack received her master's instructions. Three hot, nourishing meals and an assortment of dainties and fruit, (the best that could be found for ready money), were to be prepared and delivered to Crampton throughout the day, with an account of whether or not the fare had been eaten.

He thanked the cook and left the way he came, eager to avoid his mother and her inevitable interrogation. Upon reaching his office, he took up some leaves of paper and penned a few notes in his usual, brisk hand.

The first was to the florist, requesting the delivery of a bouquet of yellow roses to Crampton. It was a gift he conjectured might improve Margaret's mood, as he remembered hearing her once talk fondly of a similar flower. The second, to Mr Bell, enquiring after his intentions and whereabouts, and offering any assistance he could in the arrangement of Margaret's care. The last was to Miss Dixon, who he had learned was away at her sister's, to urge her to return and take her young mistress under her wing. He would have to find an address for her later.

Then he settled at his desk for the rest of the morning, working and reworking the Mill's accounts and productivity reports. He had instructed his foremen that he should not be disturbed, save by the hallboys who came bearing reports of Margaret's progress throughout the day. He worked through the lunch hour, determined to make up for whatever time he would spend calling at Crampton at a more appropriate hour of the evening. It would be unwise to risk being seen sneaking out of the house at the crack of dawn two days in a row. Once was bad enough, but he didn't want to think about that just yet.

When there were but a couple of hours left to the work day, the mill received a visitor who would not be dissuaded by any of his overseer's remonstrations. So consumed was he in his calculations that he did not hear the delicate throat being cleared in an attempt to rouse his attention. Twice.

"So you _are_ still living, I see."

Looking up from his tabulations in surprise, John took in the young lady staring at him from the doorway, noting her countenance every bit as icy as her tone. She wore a coat and gown the colour of angry red, and even her bonnet looked greatly offended, flaring out menacingly as it did around her face, reminding him of that Australian dragon-lizard he had seen illustrated in a book once.

"Afternoon Miss Lat...ah!" His bemusement suddenly dissolved, John leant back in his chair, rolled his eyes and palmed his forehead with a smack. With a look of weary resignation, he rose reluctantly to offer his fiancée a more appropriate greeting.

"The recital…" he sighed as he reached her side "It was unforgivable of me not to send word. I was detained. Most unexpectedly. I do beg your pardon."

Expecting a peck on the cheek to accompany the apology, the lady made a show of turning away dramatically, only to find that he had only risen to offer her a handshake, as was his habit. The sleight did not help matters.

"Detained?" she said sarcastically, "with what, pray tell? I spent the evening wondering whether my fiancé was lying in a ditch somewhere; beaten and robbed by one of those hands he esteems so highly; or perhaps set upon by wolves. Oh! What a relief, what a _comfort_ , to know he was simply _detained_!"

John snorted.

"There haven't been wolves in England since Henry VI. At least on that score you need not have worried."

He made to return to his desk, when a sharp pull on his arm restrained him.

"Do not sport with me, John Thornton!" she hissed, "I am in no mood for your jokes. I will not leave here until I am satisfied: where were you last night?"

John could scarcely believe the force with which this lithe, delicate creature held him captive. He glanced about to see several of the workers had noticed their altercation, and were whispering amongst themselves.

"Have a care, Miss Latimer," he replied, his voice equally low, "this is neither the time nor the place. I shall call on you tomorrow, as I have many things to attend to today."

"Like Miss Hale?" cried she, louder than she had intended. From the second and third spinning lines faces shot up to look in their direction. This would not do.

On an impulse Thornton folded the hand that gripped his arm into its crook, and lead Miss Latimer away more forcefully than either of them would ever admit to any of the onlookers. He marched her out of the Mill and up to the house, but it was not until they were in the privacy of the library that he released her.

He turned and put several paces between them, swallowing his rage in thick, heavy gulps. He took a few moments to steady his temper, biting back the profanity that had sprung onto his tongue unbidden at the sound of her vexation. It would not do to behave in any manner he would regret, however sorely she might deserve it.

"Miss Latimer," he began, his voice steadier than he felt, "can we not at least be civil?"

"I am not one of your hands, John! To be manhandled and commanded about in such a fashion!"

Every visible patch of skin, from the tips of her ears to her wrists was flushed crimson. She stood with her hands balled into tight fists and a look on her face John could almost admire, were it directed at somebody else.

"I waited for you John Thornton! Like a fool I waited at the lyceum, then at home, then for the best part of the day for you to call or send a note."

"As I said, it was unforgivable that I…"

"And as I set out here this afternoon," she continued, swatting away his interruption with a wave of her hand, "I encountered not one, but two of the servants from Marlborough Mills, coming and going between this house and Crampton. Delivering fruit! And dainties! To Miss Margaret Hale! Whom you were seen calling on last evening! Miss _HALE!_ "

Here she paused, breathless and perhaps slightly less burdened now she had said (or shouted) her peace. For a moment she fiddled with her dress and bonnet, regaining her dignity, before fixing him with her usual poise.

"Will you not tell me why, Mr Thornton?" she said, with an unnatural sweetness to her voice, "I am sure you must have your reasons for lavishing such generosity and attention on the girl. What _terrible catastrophe_ must have befallen the great southern beauty that _my fiancé_ need prove so considerate to her in her time of need?!"

These last words were hissed through gritted teeth, and were one insinuation too many to be borne. John drew himself up to his full height, and addressed her with the grave ceremony he employed when pronouncing magistral judgement or dismissing a worker.

"Her father has died, Miss Latimer. He was a good friend to me, and the only family she had left. She had no one to attend her, and was stricken with grief. Out of respect for Mr Hale (who was also my tutor, if you will recall), and for the lady herself, _and_ the memory of her mother, I took the liberty of paying my respects, and seeing that she has all she might need, at least for today, until her servant returns to take care of her."

If he felt any satisfaction at the colour that drained from her face, and the way her facetious smile contracted into a small 'O' shape, John gave no indication of it. Whatever antagonism existed between the two ladies, he suspected that even one such as Anne could hardly be unsympathetic towards the loss of a parent, nay, two parents, in so short a space of time.

His conjectures were right. She had not expected this, and was silent for several moments. Poor Miss Hale. Poor, _blasted_ girl!

"Do you love her?"

The earnest question escaped her lips, as she settled herself gracefully on the edge of a chair, an air of circumspection about her as she stared off into the distance.

"Beg ye' pardon?"

"Do you love her?" She repeated, lifting her gaze to meet his.

"It is immaterial." replied he, looking away once again with a sigh.

She nodded at his answer, as if from it she had gleaned a great wealth of information. When he turned back to her she was staring at him, with the expression of one who was performing great calculations in her head.

"It _is_ immaterial," she repeated, "What is done is done and it is better this way."

He cocked his head in question. Rising, she came towards him in response, and pressed her hands against his broad chest.

"I am sorry for her loss," she began sincerely, "truly I am. But I will not forfeit my future on her account. You are that future, John Thornton, and I'll not give you up, not for anything."

Her hands slid down his jacket, smoothing the wool and removing bits of cotton fluff that she imagined she found there.

"You will not see her again." she commanded quietly, grooming him still.

"I will see her this evening."

"You will not!" she gasped, her cheeks scarlet.

"You may accompany me, if you so wish. But I _will_ be calling at Crampton, with or without your permission. Just as you are not mine to manhandle, you will find that I am not yours to command."

After several more attempts to dissuade him, Miss Latimer conceded defeat. Fearful of goading his temper past the point of no return, she asked that he call her a cab, which he did, to take her home.

"Please give her my condolences," she said meekly, as he helped her into the vehicle. "Say to her: 'my fiancée is sorry for your loss.' And do not stay long. People have already begun to talk. There is a limit to even my patience, John."

Wearily he nodded his assent, and knocked twice on the carriage roof to instruct the driver to depart.

When the cab had turned the corner, John let out a weary sigh, easily the tenth that day alone. The discomfort of the night and the turmoil of the afternoon had knit the tendons in his head into the tightest of knots that had set itself to throbbing, particularly about the temple. He made his way back to the house, stopping once he reached the stairs. He steadied himself on the bannister, breathing deeply so as to alleviate the pressure, as he had learned. It would hardly do to bring his own troubles with him when he visited the grieving Miss Hale.

"John! What is it child? Are you sickening?"

John looked up to find his mother staring down at him from the doorway, her face taut.

"No, just a headache. I got very little sleep last night."

Her eyes flew open, scandalised.

_Damn it John! Regular glutton for punishment ye' are today!_

"About that… I'd like to speak with you, if you've got a moment."

"Well, actually Mother…"

"And even if you don't." she added briskly, punctuating her statement a withering look.

Like a misbehaving child he hung his head as he followed his mother into the parlour where he had, just moments ago, sustained the brunt of his fiancée's wrath. Her rosewater scent, a smell that had come to him uneasy, still hung in the air, transporting him back to their disagreement. He wondered for a moment how long it would be before Fanny would be along to berate him for something or other, effectively completing the Devil's trifecta for the day.

He braced himself for a scolding, but she took him by surprise, taking his hand and leading him gently to sit next to her on the settee. She kept his hand in hers, rubbing a nervous thumb back and forth against his knuckles as she tried to find the right words for what she wished to say.

"John," she began finally, "I'll not beat about the bush. I know you did not come home last night, and I heard some of your conversation with Anne. I must say I can scarce believe your carelessness! I daren't think of the gossip! And I should warn ye': I know you've no great passion for the girl, but I do not think it's right to show her such disrespect. She is your betrothed and'll not likely take kindly to being treated in such a fashion."

"I have apologised to Miss Latimer, for the offence I caused her. But I cannot apologise for my actions. You know I care nothing for idle gossip. Mr Hale was a great friend to me, so comforting his daughter was the least I could do, and I would do it again…"

_If I am ever allowed to leave this blasted parlour!_

"I've no doubt that what you did you did with honour, and in memory of Mr Hale. He was a good man, a worthy man. But you must take care, John! I fear that until Miss Hale is married or moved away from here, you will never be at liberty to move ahead into your future."

John's brow contracted at hearing his worst fears assembled into a single sentence. Disheartened, he looked away. He could not betray the deepest feelings that still anchored his heart, even to his mother.

Sensing his anguish, Mrs Thornton reached out a hand to cup his downturned cheek. Her finger brushed against the small rise of skin where he had been struck, now completely healed and invisible to all except those standing in close proximity.

"I've often thanked God for twice sparing my boy on that terrible day."

At this he looked up, his face a question.

"On the day of the riots. Twice you were almost lost to me. Once when you received this," she tapped the scar gently, "and once when I apprehended that Hale girl attempting to take advantage of you while you were ill."

"You are confusing me, Mother. What do you mean? Why would Miss Hale take advantage of me? _How_ would she even do such a thing?"

For a moment she stared deep into his eyes, reading the confirmation of what she had long suspected: that he did not remember. He must have been temporarily out of his mind, or so she told herself, preferring to blame Miss Hale for the whole affair. Here was her opportunity. Perhaps when John saw the girl for what she was: a wanton, opportunistic, fortune hunter, who gave herself airs and graces she did not deserve; the spell would be broken.

"You do not remember? I thought as much. There is nothing confusing about it. When I returned from going for the doctor, I found Miss Hale had trapped you both in the most compromising position."

"What?! What sort of position?"

Hannah squirmed. She assumed her son would have grasped her implicit meaning, unaccustomed as she was to discussing such things, least of all with him. Still, best get it over with, as clearly and concisely as possible, to avoid any more _delicate_ questions.

"She was kissing you. Most unreservedly. You had your hands in her hair and she was holding… or leaning on you in a manner that can only be described as wanton. Then there was something, I don't know, some noise that startled her, (probably Donaldson wheezing his way upstairs), and she pulled away, fearful of being caught, no doubt. That's when you took ill once more and I sent her home."

John's face was unrecognisable in disbelief, his eyes flickering across her face as shadows of memory suddenly gained in definition in his mind's eye.

"Mother! I have never known you to lie, but I cannot believe what you say?! Why… why would Miss Hale kiss me? When I was injured, knocked senseless, no less!"

"Oh John!" she cried, rolling her eyes in exasperation, "Why wouldn't she? To trap you of course! To take advantage of your addled state to impose herself on you, and bind you to her! God only knows what would have happened had I not interrupted!"

To her great bewilderment a smile began to tug at the corner of his mouth. Being kissed by Margaret Hale, (unreservedly, _wantonly_ no less!) could be considered many things, but never an imposition.

He rose to his feet, scrubbing his face and hair as he frantically ordered and reordered things in his mind. A kiss had taken place, so what he had imagined to be a fantasy was in actual fact a memory, and a heavenly one at that! But it remained to be seen who had kissed whom; he could scarcely imagine Miss Hale accepting such an embrace, let alone initiating one.

And yet, what if it were so, and there was some truth in his mother's conjecture that Margaret _had_ wished to lay some sort of claim to him? His heart swelled as he realised that even in such an instance he would still have no objection. To be caught by the woman he loved; to have her so determined to make him her own, would be a scandal he would wear as proudly as his best sunday suit.

No wonder she had thought he had been toying with her affections! Not to mention using her extremely ill, and accusing _her_ of impropriety! Waves of shame and elation washed over him as he stood gormlessly in the centre of the room, clutching distractedly at his hair and jaw as he stared off sightlessly into the distance.

"John? Can you hear me?"

The familiar voice drew his attention back to his mother. She was still perched on the chair, her expression furrowed in concern for her son's incongruous behaviour. What did he mean by mooning about, flailing his body and ruffling his hair at a time like this? Did he not grasp the gravity of the situation he was in? _They_ were in?!

Then suddenly it appeared there was no need to voice any of these concerns out loud. As their eyes locked she witnessed the warmth drain from his cheeks, and the slump of his features as the reality of his conundrum dawned on him. Discouraged, he sank down slowly onto the chair before him, almost missing the seat and landing on the floor in his distraction.

"What now?" he mumbled, "How does one proceed in such an instance as this… to be bound in honour to two different ladies…"

With an anguished look he addressed his mother.

"Tell me what I should do."

"I'm not sure I know, John." replied she, truly at a loss before such extraordinary circumstances, "except perhaps…"

"Yes?" he pressed, eagerly shifting forward to the edge of his seat.

"If both ladies have equal claim to your honour, as you say, then you must measure them against some other criteria."

Seeing he hung on her every word, she continued. Who knew but it was her last chance at influencing him in this matter.

"You must ask yourself which of the two young women will make you the best wife. For example, which girl has demonstrated the most honourable behaviour, and which has shown a propensity to court scandal? Which has displayed the more virtuous character, and could be trusted with the management of your household and the upbringing of your children? Which of these ladies will bring the greatest contribution to Marlborough Mills, which has been your life's most important work so far?"

She paused for a moment in satisfied silence, confident that there was but one conclusion he could draw. She startled in her seat as he leapt to his feet, his eyes shining in jubilant revelation.

"Miss Hale!" he cried, gesticulating wildly "Miss Hale! A thousand times Miss Hale!"

She gaped at him. Had he not heard a word she had said?

"Mother, Mother, do you not see? All that has passed, all that was done, was because of me! By your own reckoning, nay, by your very own standard, she is quite ten times more suitable for me than Miss Latimer"

"But… no! That business at the train station… and she hasn't a penny to her name! She would have nothing to contribute to the mill! You would be drowned in scandal!"

"I daresay some scandal will be unavoidable, no matter to which of these ladies I am bound. Although, in Miss Hale's case, it will not be for the reasons you imagine. Her lover at outwood was no lover at all, but her own brother. I shall explain the circumstances surrounding him at another time, but suffice it to say I am satisfied on that score. And I do not need Miss Latimer's money, as the Mill is secure and will soon turn a profit now that Mr Latimer has agreed to extend the loan."

"But what of your honour, John? Of your word to Miss Latimer? To agree to marry a girl then to change your mind and pursue another!"

"There is no 'agreement' in my engagement to Miss Latimer. The thing was thrust upon me so artfully that I found myself with little option but to acquiesce."

He resumed his seat opposite his mother, the burden of the memory suddenly weighing down heavily upon him.

"I did not realise that you had been… caught… trapped in such a way."

After all the care she had taken to shield him from such predations! Was there not a single young lady in all of Milton who with her sense of propriety still in tact?

"And yet here I am, trapped, as you say. And yet, this revelation you bestow on me, the confirmation of this memory in my mind (for it was indeed a memory all this time!), has me feeling as free as a bird! Oh mother!" he bounded to his feet once more, knocking the table so it wobbled on its stand until his mother reached out an instinctive hand to steady it. "To know that there is a chance Miss Hale cared for me… perhaps cares for me still? To me that would be worth every bit of scandal, every moment of hardship and ruin!"

"Foolish boy!" cried she in exasperation, "and where would that leave us? I've no fear for myself, mind, I know you'll always see me right. But I do not pretend to understand why you must cling to her so! And risk everything you have worked so hard for!"

"There is no reasoning to it, except that she has filled my heart so much so that I daren't think about how empty I have been in her absence. She is the part of me that I lack, as dear to me as my own body, and beside her, within her, my soul has found its mate."

He fell to his knees before her, clasping her hands in supplication.

"Would you have me betray my own heart, and my honour before God, for the sake of a young girl's schemes, and society's good opinion?"

She hesitated, torn. She had never returned any of his questions without an honest answer.

"I would not have you marry where you do not love." she said quietly, "I would take piecework, or beg in streets, or give my very lifeblood before condemning you to a life of unhappy compromise with one who has used you for her own end."

He looked at his mother as one looks upon one's personal saviour, anointing her hand with a grateful press of his lips.

"Then it is settled!" he exulted, his voice an uncharacteristic tenor. Rising to his feet, he cleared his throat, and shrouded himself in his habitual gravity.

"I will go to Crampton." He declared.

"Yes." she conceded, "you could hardly do otherwise. Only…"

Her hesitation gave him pause. He bent to meet her eye in concern.

"Do not go tonight, John. It is late, and a good night's rest can only help settle things in your mind. Stay, and take dinner with your old Mother. I daresay Miss Hale and her superior claim to you will still be there in the morning."

As she spoke she reached out and caught a piece of his coat in her hand. She toyed with it, weaving the rough fabric through her fingers to distract her from the humiliation of begging her son not to replace her with another. Not tonight, not just yet, at least.

John did not know what to make of her request, but sensed there was more to it than his mother would be inclined to let on. Ruefully he accepted, conceding that a few more hours to prepare for his interview with Miss Hale would most likely prove beneficial.

As he retired for the night he felt no surprise at discovering that sleep eluded him, despite it having been in scarce supply of late. Once in his chamber he barely had mind enough to undress, throwing himself upon the bed in an act of uncharacteristic abandon. Even his jacket and cravat, usually carefully folded and tucked away, lay strewn across the floor, alongside his waistcoat, socks and trousers.

He knew scandal was inevitable, as since the business at Outwood station Miss Hale had long been rumoured to keep a lover. He did not worry overmuch about Miss Latimer, she was artful and resourceful, and had suitors enough to find an adequate replacement for him. And the extension of the Mill's loan had already been agreed upon, with only some minor details to be added to the deed. The next few months would be critical, but John was confident that this time next year, the business would be turning a decent profit once more.

Once he had considered most of the possible consequences of this newfound revelation, John set about selecting in his mind the exact words he would say to Miss Hale. Words of apology, of regret, of reassurance, of love! Of honour that bound him so genially to that which his heart desired most of all, and he had been denied, mostly as a result of his own impetuousness. He managed to weave together the perfect declaration, one which conveyed all that he felt needed to be said given all that had passed between them. Just as he was formulating his question; his request for permission to hope beyond every damning circumstance so far, his eyes succumbed to the weight of the day's exertions.

John awoke, much later than was his habit, with a curious sensation in his jaw. Taking a moment to regain command of his limbs by stretching them across the bed, he rose directly to his feet, as he did every other morning. He made his way to the washstand, making gaping motions with his mouth in an attempt to relieve the stiffness he felt there. It sounded ridiculous, but if he was not mistaken, it almost felt as though he had spent several hours _smiling_. Indeed as he beheld himself in the mirror, he noted a distinct pronunciation of the crinkles about his eyes, and a ruddiness to his cheeks, all of which bespoke of a night spent with happiness etched all across his face.

After hasty ablutions and without a word to his mother, John quitted the mill and sped off in the direction of Crampton, and his beloved. He completed the journey in record time, and stood for a moment at the corner of the street where the small house stood, a beacon of peace and warmth since he had first been admitted into its welcoming rooms. Only then did he hear the church bell ring. It had just gone seven o'clock. Would Miss Hale even be awake at such an hour as this?

He began to weigh his options. He could return to the mill, and get a few hours work in before calling later in the morning. He could wander about aimlessly for a while, tormenting himself with scenarios in which he was refused, or worse, revealed to have completely misunderstood what his Mother had told him. Or he could brave the impropriety of calling at such an early hour and knock at Miss Hale's door directly, before he lost his nerve.

 _Besides,_ he reassured himself, _in the grand scheme of interactions between myself and Miss Hale, calling too early could hardly be considered scandalous!_

"Mr Thornton, sir."

_Christ! What now?!_

Thornton readied his most formidable scowl and turned, the expression dissolving somewhat when he came face to face with a young police officer.

"Ah, Armitage, isn't it?"

The boy beamed.

"Yes sir, yes it is. I'm sorry fe' troubling ye' so early in the day, but there is a small, yet urgent matter that requires a magistrate's verdict. I was just heading over t' Marlborough when I saw ye' across the high street, and thought I'd take the liberty."

Thornton grimaced, shifting on his feet and glancing at the door he had been fixing with a penetrating stare before the interruption. He was acquainted with this particular officer, having taken an interest in the young lad almost as soon as he had first set eyes on him several years ago. When the boy had expressed a desire to enter the police force, John had not hesitated in giving him a glowing recommendation to the chief constable on his behalf. There was something about him, so tall and shy and slightly maladroit, that had endeared him to John, perhaps reminding him of his own awkwardness at the same age.

 _A beanpole,_ he had thought, _with a nose we can only pray he grows into._

"It is no matter. What can I do for you sir?"

The _small, yet urgent_ matter turned out to be so far removed from either adjective that it took John the best part of the morning to gather all the evidence needed and, (together with Dr White, his brother Magistrate who helmed the local hospital), come to a verdict. By the time he found himself once more braving the cobbles that lead to Margaret's door, some three hours later, he had had ample time to work himself up into a fidgeting mess of anxious anticipation.

He raised a sweaty hand to take purchase on the door knocker, rapping three times before suddenly being assailed with the impression that more than twice was probably terribly common and uncouth. He stood for a moment, before realising he was almost pressed up against the door and that Mary Higgins would likely never recover were she to answer to him leering at her in such close proximity. He stepped back and removed his hat, smoothing a trembling hand over his hair and chewing the inside of his mouth as he willed the door to open. Finally it did, and he barely managed to stifle a sigh of relief at the sight of the girl his mother had recommended to the Hale's as a kitchen and parlour maid.

"Good Morning Martha," he said with a genuine smile, "Is Miss Hale in?"


	12. Retreat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi All, I hope this new chapter finds you well and thriving.
> 
> First of all, please, dear readers, accept my most fervent apologies for the delay of this chapter. I have been ill, and overwhelmed with life, and for the best part of 2 weeks this chapter refused to be written. It felt as thought Margaret did not want me to divulge what became of her following the events of chapter 11. But we pushed through and here we are. Needless to say, comments and reviews would be especially appreciated. I'm not sure how I feel about this one...
> 
> I've also written a little one-shot, mostly cuddly, fluffy lovey-doveyness, perhaps to counter all the angst I have going on in this story. It's called The Master and the Madness https://archiveofourown.org/works/25593379
> 
> Please take a look and tell me what you think. If people like it, I have a few other light and loved-up one-shots, or shorter stories I would like to publish, so I'm eager to hear what people think about it, to decide whether or not my fluffier ideas are worth working on. 
> 
> Finally, if you haven't already, do yourselves a favour and check out TheScribbler's amazing story, A Mother's Final Gift https://archiveofourown.org/works/24822763/chapters/60040045 It is an absolute gem!
> 
> Happy reading! EH

The sun had reached high in the congested sky over Milton by the time Margaret awoke. Opening one eye and then the other, she squirmed a little, stretching her arms high over her head and startling when she heard the dull thud of a flower-filled vase hitting the carpeted floor. Disoriented, she did not immediately recognise the familiar swirls that adorned the ceiling of her father’s small study. 

She slowly pushed herself upright on the narrow chaise as the memories of the previous day flooded her consciousness. The knowledge of her loss struck her a second time, and she keeled forwards, pressing her face into her palms. Although she felt her facial muscles contract, and her throat thicken, she soon realised that there were no more tears to shed. 

After a moment she rose to her feet, although to what end she really did not know. She felt groggy and parched, and most horridly stiff for having spent a whole night sleeping in the rigid confines of her corset. Taking her first step away from her makeshift bed, she knocked her foot against something hard. She looked down, and bent uncomfortably to retrieve the hefty book that lay at her feet.  _ Sartor Resartus.  _ How odd. She had no memory of reading that. She did not much care for Mr Carlyle and his crude parodies. 

She turned about the room several times distractedly, piecing together the memories from the previous evening as she took in her surroundings. It felt strangely as though she was seeing the small study for the first time. Dreamlike, and unsettling. 

_ Mr Thornton was here, _ some small voice inside her prompted.

“Of course he was here.” she whispered instantly in reply, “Where else would he have been?”

_ With Miss Latimer, or his mother, as is his proper place. _

“Oh…”

She jerked her body in an almost complete full circle, shaking her head as the impropriety of Mr Thornton’s visit began to sink in. What had she done, they done? Why had he come? Why had she let him? How had she not considered her actions, been more circumspect in her behaviour? Throwing herself at him once again, clinging to him as if her very life depended on it, allowing him to touch her, to hold her, to…

“Water!” she croaked, suddenly aware of the dull ache in her head, stinging in her throat, and her urgent need for distraction.

She left the room and padded downstairs, strangely careful to not make any noise, although she knew there was nobody left to be disturbed. She approached the kitchen, noting the door was ajar, and came to a stop just before. There was a medley of thick, darkshire accents coming from the other side, two of which she was sure she did not recognise. 

“Ye’ ‘av te’ tell us somethin’. They’re all dyin’ to know all ‘bout it back at Marlborough Mills, they’ll ‘ave our ‘eads if we go back with nothin’ te’ report!”

“I’m sure I don’t know anymore than you two! Besides, ‘ave you no respect? Miss Margaret ‘as been through so much, what with ‘er mother dying and now ‘er father so soon after.”

Margaret smiled at Mary’s staunch defense of her privacy, and was about to announce her presence, when another unfamiliar voice halted her step.

“Now, nobody’s sayin’ things ‘aven’t been ‘ard fe’ the girl,” it began, “but th’ loss of ‘er parents dunt’ excuse all tha’ shoutin’ and screamin’ tha’ Miss Latimer was doin’ at the Measter, on account of ‘is attentions to Miss Margaret. Behaved like a dog, sh’ thinks ‘e ‘as! You’d ‘a thought he’d a’ formed an attachment to ‘er!”

“Oh I heard ‘e ‘as ‘n all! Remember all the talk of th’ ball up at Latimer’s? All of Milton felt sure ‘e would ask for ‘er ‘and ‘n not Miss Latimer’s. But weren’t we surprised when ‘e didn’t? Went ‘n chose Miss Latimer, dint’ he. Fer a bonnie face won’t pay th’ bills, even one as fine as Miss ‘ale’s.”

“Can’t say I blame ‘im. From what Miss Thornton says, Miss ‘ale’s a most unpleasant young lady- so surly ‘n severe! And full of ‘erself too, even though they’re not rich nor ever ‘ave been!”

“Aye and all that business at Outwood! Out walkin’ at all hours with a gentleman at train station. Truly, th’ masters’ not bin ‘imself since that Miss ‘ale come t’ Milton.” 

“Aye, bad influence she is, I reckon.”

Margaret gasped. The curiosity that had held her glued to the floor was replaced with a shock-induced paralysis. If she had not found her own behaviour abhorrent enough, it now appeared she was also the abomination of all of Milton

“You two’d do well to stop yer mouths before I throw ye’ both out on ye’ backsides!” scolded Mary, with not a little of her father’s grit in her voice. “I’ll not ‘ave the likes o’ you talkin’ so idly and so ill of Miss ‘ale. Ye’ don’t know ‘er at all. Ye’ don’t know nothin’!”

“Per’aps, Miss ‘iggins, but all I do know is the’s not one person ‘twixt ‘ere and the Mill, that int’ talkin’ ‘bout the Master ‘n ‘is mad dash to come comfort Miss ‘ale in ‘er ‘our o’ need.”

“Aye, ‘n all the servants up at Marlborough knows ‘im didn’t come ‘ome last night…”

Margaret could not say how long she had been sitting on the third step of the creaky, wooden staircase, or even how she got there, by the time Mary emerged from the kitchen. She carried a tea tray heaving with the first of the offerings from Marlborough Mills, and leapt several feet in the air at the sight of an unexpected figure lurking on the stairs. 

“Miss!” she gasped, as Margaret rose to steady the young girl’s burden. 

_ Good God!  _ thought Mary, _ This house will be the death of me! _

Once she had gathered her wits about her, she was struck by the pain written across the young mistress’ face. It wasn’t just the exhaustion of grief, there was something else, some poignant injury she could read there, that hadn’t been there while she slept.

“Come Miss, ye’ shun’t be up ‘n about. Ye’ should be restin’, to get ye’ strength up. Measter’s orders.”

To her surprise Miss Margaret acquiesced without a word. Mary lead the way upstairs, past the parlour and into her mother’s small sitting room. Once she had settled her compliant charge in one of the more comfortable armchairs, she set about preparing a plate of ham, eggs and fragrant Easterhedge pudding. Margaret accepted the meal, offering the smallest ghost of a smile by way of thanks. Mary nodded, responding with as firm a smile as she could muster, but inwardly quaking with inadequacy in the face of the almost tangible disquiet that enveloped them both. Her expression faded as she turned away, and began pouring the tea.

“Is it true?”

Mary set her mistress’ teacup down on the small table beside her.

“Beg ye’ pardon?”

“Is it true? What they were saying about… about all this? Those girls in the kitchen this morning. From Mrs Thornton’s house, I imagine”

“That depends,” replied Mary, honest, as ever, to a fault, “wha’ did you ‘ear ‘em sayin’?”

“About Mr Thornton, and Miss Latimer, and about what people are saying… what people think… of me?”

Mary stood rooted to the floor, her stubby fingers toying with her apron as she found herself suddenly bereft of occupation with which to calm her agitated hands. How could she tell Miss Margaret of the rumours she herself had heard, spreading through the mill and the streets like the last lingering bit of summer fever- an illness that gave extremely unpleasant symptoms, but whose effects were invariably short-lived.

She chewed on her lip and studied the floor, casting about for how to best respond to her friend, oblivious to the answer she unconsciously provided by her silence. Her salvation came in the form of a determined rap at the door.

“That’ll be th’ Doctor.” She announced, “Excuse me, miss. I’ll show ‘im in whilst ye’ finish yer breakfast.”

Margaret bore the doctor’s visit with as much grace as she could muster, which was not very much at all. She appreciated his calling, surmising that much like the delicious meal she had only just finished, his visit must have been arranged at Mr Thornton’s behest. 

_ What kindness,  _ she thought to himself,  _ what kindness, and tenderness and thoughtfulness. All of which I might never know again. _

Dr. Donaldson seemed satisfied to see that she was up and on her feet, and eating with sufficient appetite as to indicate that her body had not succumbed to some overwhelming collapse. He took care to offer sincere condolences, as he truly felt sorry for the girl- bonnie, sensible creature that she was. With a warm smile and a paternal pat of her hand, he quit the Crampton house. He remembered to leave a small missive containing the details of his first diagnostic impressions, to be collected by Mr Thornton’s servants when they came to deliver the next repast. 

Once the doctor had left, Margaret’s legs nearly gave way beneath her, and she stumbled over to the bed and collapsed onto its welcoming softness. Her body was spent but her mind was alert, strangely abuzz with a sharp, almost frenetic energy. She sighed as she realised that although sleep had been the doctor’s chief prescription, there were far too many thoughts that needed attending to.

Even reclined across the comfortable bed, a feeling of weight clung to her, the kind of resigned heaviness that can only be achieved when one has emptied one’s person from an excess of emotion, and wept a great many tears in a short space of time. This was not the numbness of feeling that had overwhelmed her at her mother’s passing, no, she felt the misfortune of it all most keenly, but had not the strength to resist these feelings, neither the inclination, nor any valid reason, to rally her spirits to feel otherwise.

That all of Milton should be buzzing with her scandalous behaviour struck her as almost comical. Indeed she had not the energy to regret the inevitable damage her reputation would have sustained, conjecturing that following the events at Outwood station there was, in all likelihood, very little of it left to damage. But the injury to Mr Thornton,  _ that _ she had not anticipated. It would seem even the formidable Master of Marlborough Mills was not immune to having his good name bandied about for the few moments of sordid pleasure that such scandalous rumours could procure. He did not deserve such censure, and neither did his fiancée who was, by all accounts, a good, accomplished and virtuous young lady. They had every right to happiness, and Margaret bitterly regretted the stain she had wrought upon their acquaintance far above the havoc she had wreaked upon her own.

She recalled wistfully Mr Thornton’s gentle attentions of the previous evening. When the thought struck her once again of the impropriety of his actions, she pushed it aside, soon finding amusement in the observation that impropriety had coloured almost every aspect of their relationship. It seemed very fitting, then, that this, their closing scene, should prove no different. For that was what it was, she felt certain. Closure. Yesterday two of the three men she had ever loved had been lost to her.

Although their paths might cross, they would never again share another quiet intimacy, a rare luxury that they had been afforded, for it was usually unheard of for two unmarried persons of the opposing sex to spend as much time in eachother’s presence as they had. And rightly so, if the scandalous results of their own indiscretions were anything to go by! Oh, how she had craved those moments, even when she had mistaken her longing for loathful apprehension. Even last night, as she had attempted to dismiss him, testing his resolve, her entire being had betrayed her, rebelling against her own actions in casting away her only possible source of comfort. Where else would she find solace enough to begin the repair of her battered spirits, outside of such a warm, covering embrace and the shelter of so great and steadfast a heart?

“Oh Anne Latimer!” she whispered to herself, “I hope you know how blessed you are to be loved by such a man as he!”

He might have loved her once, but could not ask for her. She had encouraged, then rejected him, then allowed him to believe the worst of her, without offering him any alternative. And yet, in his great generosity he had still asked for her forgiveness, for her friendship, and she had thrown it back in his face by behaving so inappropriately when he had come to pay his respects at the death of her father. Papa! Oh, how she had dishonoured him! He might not have blamed himself for their cruel removal to Milton, if he had known just what a petulant, wanton wench his own daughter had become. 

No more. She would toy with John Thornton’s great and tender heart no more. She had no right to his affections, no claim to a future by his side. She must release him and resign herself to a life in which she had known what it was to love but had recognised the opportunity far too late. John Thornton would marry Miss Latimer, and she would away, to London, or Oxford or Cadiz, or wherever the fates that had so tirelessly sought to tear her life apart thread by thread would find it in their fancy to cast her.

She was interrupted in her ruminations by another decisive rap at the door. She cocked her ear out, and heard the determined rustling of skirts that followed, accompanied by several muffled exclamations of discontent, and a decided creaking of the wooden staircase. Instinctively she rose, smoothing her dress as she turned to face the door that flew open in a moment. 

“Margaret! My poor, wretched dear! How sorry I am for you!”

“I…”

“No no no child!” dismissed the portly lady, gliding across the room and gathering the startled girl into her corpulent embrace, “there is no need to thank me! Where else could I possibly be but by your side at a time like this?”

“Yes, but…”

“Although I confess I’ve never thought much of that Adam Bell, far too idiosyncratic for my liking, all that reading and gallivanting about, and those chequered trousers, dear me! But in this instance I can readily admit that I am indebted to him for his quick thinking.”

“Aunt, I…”

“The letter Margaret! Mr Bell sent an express to Harley Street to inform us of the death of my late sister’s husband, so suddenly in Oxford. I know we had planned to come for you in a week’s time, but fortunately we had but one dinner engagement this week and so it was absolutely no bother to reschedule in order to bring our little trip to Milton up by a few days. So you see this little detour was no trouble at...”

“Aunt Shaw! I cannot breathe!”

“Oh!”

With the propulsion of a jack-in-the-box, Margaret sprang from Mrs Shaw’s grasp as the lady released the smothering hold she imagined was providing her niece the greatest measure of comfort. Rubbing her neck discreetly, she nodded and mumbled in response to her aunt’s barrage of interrogations and appraisals of her current predicament, although it was apparent that her participation in the conversation was completely optional. Indeed, even after she fell silent, her aunt pressed on her soliloquy, as it took her out the door into the adjoining sitting room, and perhaps beyond.

Margaret stilled, her ears suddenly detecting the lower tones of an indisputable masculine voice coming from the stairs, accompanied by heavy, but quick footfall. Instinctively she lifted her hand to smooth her hair, brushing the other down the front of her bodice whilst she shot a glance in the direction of the small looking glass mounted on the wall. 

“Margaret! My, but what a sorry business this is, that brings us up north so suddenly!”

One could hardly mistake the visible slump of Margaret’s shoulders, but the young lady rallied admirably, extending both hands to greet her dear cousin’s husband. 

“Maxwell, it is good of you to come. It is a comfort to see you again.”

She meant every word. Captain Maxwell Lennox was the sort of person whose easy manners and childlike enthusiasm made his presence an asset to almost any social situation, and the man himself quite impossible to dislike. If she were entirely honest with herself, his company was by far the most pleasant of the entire Shaw-Lennox clan.

“Not at all, dear Margaret! Although I must say I am quite surprised by what I have seen of Milton so far. It is not at all what I would have expected. So much soot and ash, very unusual for a port town. And I’m surprised not to have seen a single sailor, or boat for that matter.”

The most pleasant, but not always the brightest.

“I think you must be thinking of Liverpool, Maxwell. Milton is a manufacturing town, there is no port here.”

“Oh...right.”

Just then Aunt Shaw returned, clucking her discontent at some aspect of the Crampton house that was too small, or too dark, or too firmly erected on Milton soil for her tastes. Feeling the familiar prickle of exasperation creeping over her, Margaret excused herself, scurrying downstairs as quick as she could to retrieve some refreshment for her unexpected guests, and some space for herself. 

She walked into the kitchen unannounced, her face splitting into a tired but genuine smile when she beheld a familiar hunched figure darkening the back door. 

“Nicholas!” she exclaimed, circumventing the kitchen table to greet her friend warmly. How strange it was, that the sight of Higgins brought her greater comfort on this dark day than the arrival of her own blood-relations. Although one of them was as dear to her as a brother could be, and the other, the closest approximation to a mother she probably had left, they had been in the house scarcely half an hour before she had felt the suffocating need to escape their company. 

“Miss,” said Higgins gravely, the twinkle in his eye replaced with a paternal tenderness, “I come t’ offer ye’ my condolences. ‘E were a good man, your father. ‘Twas an ‘onour to ‘ave known ‘im.”

Unable to reply, she pursed her lips and nodded, shaking several tears from their tracks upon her cheeks and onto the grimy hands that gently clasped her own.

“N ye’ mus know, Miss. Nay, as a father meself ‘tis me job t’ tell you. Th’ biggest credit to ‘im, to ‘is goodness ‘n kindness, is th’ daughter ‘e leaves behind. ‘E was right proud o’ ye’, ‘n ‘ad every reason t’ be. You take comfort ‘n that.”

“Thank you Nicholas,” she managed to gasp, “I shall.”

“Good girl. Now, ye’ must’ve come down ‘ere with summat’ in mind, what wit’ yer London relations arrived, or so Mary tells me.”

“Yes,” said Margaret, dashing a palm across her cheeks, “Mary, might we have some tea, upstairs in Mama’s sitting room? I do not think we have anything by way of biscuits or cake, so we’ll just have to…”

“The’s plenty o’ dainties, Miss,” countered Mary, pulling a gingham dishcloth off two plates heaped with an impressive assortment of biscuits, chief amongst them ginger snaps, which Margaret noted with a grimace. “Mr Thornton sent ‘em over from th’ kitchens up a’ Marlborough Mills.”

_ Ah, _ thought Margaret,  _ that explains those horrid things! _

“And how is Mr Thornton?” asked Margaret, addressing her friend as she helped Mary arrange the things on the tea tray.

Higgins studied Margaret for a moment, wondering how best to answer her enquiry. There was no denying the Master’s partiality to the young Miss, and her own preference for him had also become increasingly apparent. But as far as he knew, and for some unknown reason, the engagement still stood, and Higgins had heard firsthand of the discord between the young couple, mostly on the subject of the grieving girl that stood before him, waiting with baited breath for his reply.

“Busy miss. What wit’ all what’s goin’ on up at Mill. ‘E puts in all ‘ours just t’ keep up.”

“Oh,” was her only response, but the desolate syllable spurred Higgins to offer her some attempt at comfort.

“I ‘spect ‘e might call round ‘ere later. ‘E mentioned wantin’ t’ get th’ day’s business out th’ way so that ‘e might call t’ enquire after yer own ‘ealth. Can’t promise, though.”

“I see,” she replied, her eyes suddenly brightened by the prospect, which gratified Nicholas. 

They chatted for a short while, as the kettle boiled. She heard more of the success of the mill kitchen, and some of the challenges of the medical fund Mr Thornton had been trying to conceive of an effective structure for. Their conversation contained no particular revelation on any subject, as she had kept abreast of the developments at Marlborough Mills through the Higginses and her other princeton acquaintances. And yet Margaret found herself once again moved by the generosity, and innovative ingenuity of the author of these schemes. He might claim it was all ‘good business sense’, but she now knew too much of his kindness to give any credit to such an assertion. 

But all too soon the kettle was boiled, and Margaret was expected back upstairs and away from the cosy kitchen and the even cosier company. In a moment of childish abandon, she threw her arms about Nicholas’ neck, propelled by some desperate feeling she could not quite put a name to.

“God bless ye’ miss. I’ll try stop t’morrow, per’aps t’ collect Mary, if that’s agreeable t’ ye’.”

“Of course Nicholas. I shall look forward to it.”

Once back upstairs, the conversation had shifted from Milton and its deficiencies to the urgent nature of their departure. Aunt Shaw had been insistent they catch the evening train back to Harley Street directly, citing the immediate need to remove her niece, and herself, from so polluted a place as this. Margaret had resisted, and a battle of wills had taken place of such refinement and well-bred discretion that one could scarce discern there was any disagreement at all between the two ladies. 

Finally they had reached a compromise. They would leave in the morning, first thing, giving Margaret ample time to ready her things and receive whatever mysterious ‘friends’ had given the impression they would call later in the day. It had been Dixon that had swayed the argument, the stout servant having sent a note saying she had learned of Mr Hale’s death from some unnamed informant, and would arrive late this evening, or early the next morning to attend to her grieving mistress. Implacable as she was, Aunt Shaw still remembered the days when Dixon was her own ladies’ maid, waiting on both her and her sister when they were still the young Misses Beresford. And even she could appreciate how one so familiar as she could be of great comfort to Margaret at such a time as this.

With the matter out of the way, the conversation turned back to more trivial matters, chief amongst them- the subject of Mr Hale and his deficiencies. Thankfully, Captain Lennox had been but little acquainted with Father, and could therefore be relied on for a welcome change of topic.

“I say, if there is no port in Milton, how do they get those great, big ships out to sea?” He asked, as one intrigued by some great mystery.

“Which great, big ships?” asked Margaret.

“The ships, the ones they manufacture here in Milton.”

“They do not manufacture ships in Milton.”

“But I thought you said Milton was a manufacturing town?”

“It is. But Milton manufactures textiles. Cotton mainly.”

“Then where do they make ships?”

“In Liverpool.”

“Oh… right.”

Margaret stared at her cousin-in-law, bemused. She had often wondered how it was that Maxwell Lennox had come through the ravages of war so unscathed. How he had ever made Captain was beyond her.

“Margaret dear, if we are only to depart tomorrow, I’m afraid I must rest. Can you have one of the maids prepare one of the bedrooms?” she peered around the small room, as if waiting for such a servant to materialise, as they were wont to do in Harley Street.

“There is no maid, aunt. Mary is busy in the kitchen. I shall prepare your room myself.”

“You will do no such thing!” exclaimed she, recoiling in horror at such a revolutionary notion.

“Very well, Aunt Shaw. Would you like to wait in here?”

“Yes thank you.”

Margaret had just finished tucking in the final corner of the bedsheet when her aunt bustled into the room. 

“Well, she might not look like much, but it seems that kitchen girl you have might have some prospects.” Aunt Shaw smoothed a hand over the impeccably draped coverlet, “this bed has been most excellently made.”

“I will be sure to tell her you approve.” said Margaret.

“Yes, they like to hear that sort of thing. Speaks to their feudal pride, and all that. Now I must rest. Please ask the maid to wake me for dinner.”

“Yes Aunt. I will see you later.”

Back in the sitting room she found Captain Lennox preparing to take a walk, to see what a manufacturing town that manufactured textiles, and not ships, looked like. After some small debate over the direction in which lay the ocean, (in which Margaret had to point out several times, that it lay in every direction, what with Britain being an island, and Milton at its geographic centre), he faithfully repeated the directions she gave him, and promised to return within the hour or two. 

Then, at last, she was alone. With her thoughts, her fears and the hazy heaviness that had coloured the day so far. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she realised that she had yet to change out of yesterday’s clothes, or don her mourning attire, barely washed and pressed from her mother’s passing. She sighed, although in truth she was relieved. She felt instinctively that sleep would elude her, and did not have the courage to even attempt resting, for fraught were the thoughts and painful were the memories that she knew would occupy her mind should it be allowed to be idle even for a moment. She left her small bedroom, as quick as she had entered, padding down the stairs so as not to wake her sleeping aunt, to ask Mary for some hot water for a bath.

Once she was bathed, refreshed and more appropriately attired, she entered the sitting room to find an opulent bouquet of yellow roses waiting for her, arranged wildly in a vase that was, in truth, a little too short to hold the stems entirely upright. Instead the flowers were spread out in all sorts of angles, some bending, others tumbling over the sides, giving the impression that the sunny blossoms were spilling over the top of the porcelain vessel and onto the lace-covered tabletop. Margaret gasped at the enchanting sight, at once mistaking them for her beloved Helstone roses before dismissing such a notion at the sight of their pointed leaves.

There was no note, save for the florist’s card, but Margaret knew instantly whom they must be from. She could not fathom how he had known that yellow was her favourite colour, nor that yellow roses her favourite flower, but the knowledge that he possessed such intimate understanding of her personal preferences was both a balm to her soul and a blow to her heart. After a few more moments arranging and admiring her new gift, she set about assembling the things she would need to take with her in her trunk, separating them from those that could be sent on at a later date. Every so often she would glance up at her precious gift, both warmed and saddened by its significance. 

She took particular care in appraising each item as she packed, folding and preparing her belongings with uncharacteristic meticulousness. Armed with such rigour she was able to push away any thought of Mr Thornton’s arrival, and the inevitable farewell that would follow soon after. She could not bear it to think of it. The heart can only withstand so much. 

Soon the day had darkened to evening. Captain Lennox had returned, bringing with him the doctor, or rather, had been escorted back by the doctor who had happened upon the incongruous looking gentleman who had lost his way, and was wandering the streets on the other side of Crampton. 

Dr. Donaldson was pleased to find his patient up and occupied, and was not concerned overmuch by her lack of rest during the day, mostly because Margaret did not inform him of it. He soon took his leave, declining the tea and refreshments offered him much to Margaret’s exasperation, as she could scarcely fathom what they were going to do with the small mountains of biscuits, scones, puddings and cake that had been delivered from Mrs Thornton’s kitchen throughout the day. In the end she packed up several baskets, and instructed Mary to take them home with her, and any of her neighbours with children. She was sure Mr Thornton wouldn’t mind. 

Dinner was a quiet affair, during which Mrs Shaw was convinced that the copious meal of new potatoes; roast carrots, parsnips and duck; a selection of English cheeses; and a splendid orange custard pudding, would not agree with her delicate digestion. After her third helping of each, she declared that she had been right, and although she meant no insult to this  _ Mrs Thornton _ (whoever she was), nor her cook, she would have to stop there.

Aunt Shaw took to her room soon after dinner, claiming at this juncture that the smoky Milton air was too taxing for her lungs, and it was a wonder her dear sister survived as long as she did in such a barbarian climate. 

Margaret accompanied her to her quarters, to ensure her aunt had everything she needed. Once it had been established that the excessive hardness and, somehow simultaneous worn softness of the mattress must have been the cause of her parent’s ill health, and that the lady herself was uncertain as to whether or not she would survive the night in such discomfort, Margaret kissed her aunt goodnight, and scurried out as fast as her tired legs could carry her. 

Captain Lennox too had retired, no doubt exhausted from the herculean task of wrapping his head around the idea that the north of England boasted more than one industrial city of note. And so, Margaret found herself alone with her thoughts once again.

With no other means of distraction, she allowed herself to feel a pang of betrayal at Mr Thornton’s absence. Had he not said he intended to come? No, she reminded herself, he had not. He had told Nicholas that he  _ hoped _ to be able to come. But he was a busy man, and she could no longer refute the impropriety of his calling again, even if her Aunt were present to chaperone. He was still betrothed to another, and it was not as if anything was likely to have changed on that score.

A wave of fatigue washed over her at the thought, and she slumped down gracelessly into her father’s armchair. She decided to give herself a moment’s rest, as she still had much to do before her departure in the morning. Her trunk was packed and her clothes set out, but she wished to prepare her father’s books for their removal to Marlborough Mills. Although the task could have just as well been left to Dixon, who would probably remain at Crampton to see to the closing of the house, there was something about these particular preparations that made her feel connected to both the men she knew that she would never see again. 

She was scarcely aware that he eyes had fallen shut, until suddenly, he was before her, at their opening. She had not heard him enter, so gentle was his presence and soft was his footfall. She made to rise but he halted her motion, lowering himself to his knees and drawing closer to her than was proper. For a moment they looked at eachother, and she lost herself in his eyes, her heart wrenching at the sight of the thunderous torment raging in those once clear skies. 

He raised a hand to her cheek, and she leant into his warmth, every nerve in her body tingling as her cells rushed to collect under that one point of contact. She closed her eyes, leaning into him, drawing what little strength she could to replace the reserves she had depleted today. When she opened them again, he was but a breath away from her, and suddenly any thought of propriety was gone- beaten into naught by the hammering of her heart and the heat that coursed through her veins. 

He angled his face towards hers, roving over every millimetre of her countenance as she had known him to do twice before. His eyes lingered on her lips that were parted expectantly, yet as he met them with his own against, she felt no sensation. Strangely, she heard his voice as if he were not pressed against her, the deep baritone travelling to her like some distant rumble of thunder. 

“Oh Margaret, my Margaret, no one can know what you are to me! Asleep as you lie there… the only woman I ever loved!”

She opened her eyes and pulled back, studying his face as he looked at her with a longing he had never completely put to words. A moment more, then he spoke, and Margaret’s stomach twisted bitterly at the sound.

“Would that that wretched kiss had never happened.”

With one last ounce of willpower she jolted herself awake. She was alone, in the world and in the dark now that the candle had all but burned out, with nothing but the echo of Mr Thornton’s regrets for company. 

Rising heavily to her feet, she fumbled about in the dark to light another candle, which she used to locate a piece of writing paper and a pencil. After deliberating several moments, she heaved a weary sigh and scribbled a single line onto the page, before folding it carefully and slipping it inside the one volume she intended to leave unbound upon her father’s desk. Once she had arranged the books into organised piles, securing their bulk with straps and bits of twine, she took to her bed. Perhaps the doctor had been right. Perhaps sleep was what she needed most.

The next morning, the small party quitted the Crampton house long before sunrise. Aunt Shaw was ill-tempered and Captain Lennox disoriented, so Margaret was pleased that Dixon had arrived and was present to take their departure in hand. She entrusted her faithful servant with a note of thanks for Mr and Mrs Thornton, a note of explanation for the change of plans for Nicholas, as well as several small packages of items to be given to Mary for the children. She also left instructions regarding the items to be auctioned, taking care to repeat several times that not a single book was to be sold or given away until Mr Thornton had taken his pick. 

Dixon thought many of these last instructions unnecessary, for what would a tradesman like Thornton want with such volumes of philosophy and poetry? She had never subscribed to the idea that the coarse manufacturer could aspire to better himself, preferring to believe that his attendance at Crampton had been for the sole purpose of seeing Miss Margaret- pretty, naive thing that she was. No, it was best the young mistress was away to London, where she could no doubt find comfort in people of her own station and breeding, and as far away from these heathen northerners and their designs on her as she could get.

Still, compelled by her deeply ingrained devotion to her late mistress and now, her young daughter, Dixon was determined to carry out the instructions to the letter. This was just as well really, for this way, it would be Mr Thornton and Mr Thornton alone who would discover the secret missive hidden in the first few pages of Mr Hale’s copy of  _ Plato’s Republic _ . Mr Thornton alone could appreciate the wavering curves of the letters as they betrayed the trembling hand that wrote them; or make sense of the short, cryptic message they spelled out.

_ Please forgive me. For everything. _

_ MH  _

  
  



	13. Ruin

“Goodmorning Martha,” Mr Thornton said with a genuine smile, “Is Miss Hale in?”

“No sir,” replied the girl, taken aback by the animation upon the usually stern Master’s face.

“What? Where is she?”

“She’s gone, sir. To London. ‘er aunt came t’collect ‘er, ‘er ‘n that Mr Lennox.”

Gone?! How could she have gone?! John clutched at his pocket watch, the blood draining from his face as he cast his eyes wildly up and down the street. 

“When? When did they go?”

Perhaps he could catch them up. If he saddled his fastest horse he might just...

“Early this morning, Sir, on the six o’clock train. But Miss Dixon said the Mistress left something fe’...”

But Thornton did not hear her, as he was already halfway down the road.

With astonishing velocity he tore across Crampton, reaching the bustling hive of Milton’s high street in record time. There he adapted his trajectory midair in order to avoid colliding with a hansom cab as it pulled out of where it had been stationed, earning an angry yell of protest from its driver. Rounding the corner, he found himself twisting deftly to circumvent the gaggle of shopgirls huddled around some business or other on the pavement. 

He covered the cobbled roads in an unnaturally short measure of time, accelerating when assailed by a rogue barrel that had broken loose from its wagon fixing to come hurtling in his direction. Projecting himself in the air, he cleared the obstacle with ease, before hitting the ground once more at the same breakneck speed, leaving the passersby staring on agape in his wake. 

Rounding a final corner, he leapt up the stairs two or three at a time, and skidded to a breathless halt before the small booth that marked the midpoint of the long platform. 

“Where’s this train going?” He demanded, gesturing at the whistling engine that had begun to chug its way out of the station.

“Southbound, express t’London, Mr Thornton sir. But I’m afraid it’s already...” 

A clamor of metal coins hitting the booth window and the platform floor was all the bewildered porter received in response. Plying his face to the furthermost corner of the small pane, he could just make out the Master of Marlborough’s disappearing form as he pounded across the platform with a force that threatened to split the concrete in two underfoot. 

As the train sped up so did he, scanning its retreating flank whilst calculating his odds with alacrity. In one swift motion, he launched himself from the platform edge onto the final carriage step, hooking his arm about the guardrail, and heaving for breath as the locomotive cleared the station.

Running his fingers through his unruly hair, John made his way through the carriages, negotiating the train’s motion carefully with each step. He stopped short of entering the first-class compartment, unsure of just how much money he had thrown at the porter, but quite certain he had nothing by way of ticket that could justify his presence there. Finding an empty booth, he slid inside and settled himself on the seat, closing his eyes and resting his head against the cool wood panelling behind him. 

Before long the greying urban sprawl gave way to scenes of barren fields and sparse vegetation. Although his heartbeat had slowed and his senses were lulled into temporary repose, inwardly John began to squirm. 

What had been his purpose in tearing across Milton like that, for all of town to see? He had no idea what he intended by it, nor what he should do next. 

He couldn’t very well turn up at her aunt’s home unannounced. Besides, although he recalled hearing talk of time spent at Harley Street, he had no way of knowing in which house her family resided. The thought of going door-to-door in an attempt to track her down struck him suddenly, and he snorted to himself at the absurdity of it all. 

And even if he did succeed in finding her, what was he to say? He was, for all intents and purposes, still engaged to another (although he refused to even contemplate the kettle of fish that awaited him in that department!), and Margaret had given no indication that she wanted to see him, even if his honour, and his heart, compelled him to seek her out, whatever the cost.

No, as misfortune would have it, when the mechanical beast chugged its way into London Bridge, John discovered that he had parted with both his hat and his courage in Milton. With little conviction he disembarked the train, and wandered aimlessly about the departure hall for what felt like an eternity. 

Before he knew it, he found himself once again before a porter’s booth. There, he extended a little more courtesy when purchasing a ticket on an impulse. Once he had located the correct platform, he climbed on board just moments before the whistle blew and the train shuddered into motion. He heaved a sigh of relief as he left the buzzing metropolis, and, he hoped, his temporary madness, behind him. 

John slumped down in his compartment, eager to hide from the world and his own idiocy. Soon he was asleep, lulled by the comforting sway of the train and his own exhaustion. Only when the conductor announced their arrival in the New Forest did he awaken with a start, and disembark almost as disoriented as he had done in London only a few hours prior.

Once he had got his bearings, he wandered into the nearest town and made some enquiries, securing passage to his destination aboard a local farmer’s wagon. They had scarcely travelled three quarters of an hour before John came to two significant realisations concerning his impromptu excursion. The first: that he would do well to follow his escort’s lead and divest himself of his thick wool coat and cravat lest he die of heatstroke. And the second, that he would surely not have the strength to leave the paradise that was currently assailing every one of his senses as they rolled through the golden fields and bucolic woodlands.

He was proved right on both scores. Even as the Northerner in him felt affronted, nay, accosted even, by the indecent temperature, before he knew it he was taking a room at a small, public house, strategically located within walking distance of the local parish. After despatching a short missive to his Mother, he spent the best part of the next few days exploring Helstone*: the place that had made and moulded his Margaret into the glorious creature that had come to know and adore.

* * *

Before long, and a little too soon for his liking, John was back at his office in Marlborough Mills. Williams had managed things splendidly in his short absence, and Mother had been gracious enough to keep her interrogations to a minimum upon his return, although it had not been entirely for his own benefit.

His unexpected sojourn away from Milton had invariably become the talk of the town. People had lost no time in linking the Master’s sudden disappearance with the departure of the poor Miss Hale, after the terrible loss of her Father. His mad dash across town hadn’t done much to improve matters, and the pervasiveness of the gossip was such that it had even reached his mother’s ears. As rumour would have it, the Master had taken leave of his senses, and eloped with Miss Hale to London, in order to escape a marriage of financial convenience with Miss Latimer. 

Mrs Thornton had, as ever, opted to weather the storm with all the dignity and reserve that became a person of her own life experience and background. Gossip came and went, she had learned, remembering how cruel it had been to find herself and her two young children in the cross-hairs of scandal following her husband’s suicide. Though she would never admit it, she had given a moment’s credence to the idea herself, sending a silent prayer God’s way for the protection and preservation of her dear son and all he had worked for, should the rumours of his madness prove true. Fortunately, his note had arrived soon after, and she had been relieved to banish such a ridiculous notion to the barren outskirts of her mind. 

She fathomed that it would not help matters should her son be informed of the talk that swirled around his person and his potential nuptials. She was all too aware that an even greater maelstrom was brewing, waiting to be unleashed as soon as John formally ended his engagement with Miss Latimer, as she had no doubt he still intended to. 

She did not dread the scandal, but she dreaded any repercussions that might befall him, or the mill, once the banker and his daughter had been well and truly rejected. But John had reassured her that all was under control. The bank had frozen loan repayments for all the mills since the strike, and once payment had been received for the last six months’ orders, he felt sure he would be in a position to recommence reimbursements at the same rate as before. Although the vast majority of the other Mill Masters had pinned their hopes on some tomfool speculation from America, John preferred the concrete reassurance that buying, producing, and selling provided him and his business. He had not taken part. 

His visit to Helstone had afforded him the opportunity to reflect on his current predicament, and devise an approximation of a strategy for his future. He braced himself for the fallout of breaking with Anne, all too aware of the gossip that would hound the both of them until some other scandal arrived to take its place. He did not worry for himself, but he did not want to see Miss Latimer suffer, even though the whole affair had been more of her own doing than anything else. 

As for his future with Margaret, he only had a mind for his impending freedom; the tenderness of their last moments together; and her secret missive. Each of these elements served to fan the suffocated flame of his love back to the raging inferno he had come to know and cherish, even as it consumed him. The pastoral peace and tranquility he had known in Helstone had done much in the way of calming his propensity to act out the urges of his heart and pride in the most impetuous way possible. He had resolved to take a gentler approach.

Miss Hale had just lost both her parents, and was now facing at least six months of mourning. During this time, it would be unheard of for her to be out in society, or engaging in any activity that might be construed as disrespectful towards the memory of the deceased. Moreover, John suspected that she would need the time to become acquainted with her grief; to discover what it was to be orphaned in the world; to come to terms with the cruel manner in which life meanders on, regardless of the damage it leaves in its wake. He felt sure she would discover her own fortitude in amongst the rubble of her life as she knew it, for his beloved, he knew, was made of the stronger stuff than the hardships fate had so cruelly assailed her with since even before her arrival in Milton.

John’s greatest desire was to accompany her throughout this journey, but he had come to terms with the fact that this was not to be his portion. He considered it an extension of his punishment for so many months of toying with her affections for the sake of his own impatient pride. Though not a religious man, he found himself interceding daily for her health and happiness, until such a time came as he could assess for himself that her heart had truly healed over. 

So he would leave her to her mourning, even if it meant risking that she might be caught and claimed by another, more prudent and worthy than he. He would endeavour to deserve her, working to clear his debt to the bank and increase productivity at the Mill so that he might, along with his heart and eternal devotion, have the promise of a comfortable life to offer her, when the time came. That time, he determined, would be six months hence, and not a day more. When winter reached its peak, he would go to her, laying down everything in his possession in exchange for the privilege of calling her his own. 

With his future mapped out so very tidily, there were urgent matters of the present that required his immediate attention. Purposefully ignoring the small mountain of correspondence he had received from Midsbury in his absence, he made his way across town, following the short missive he had sent Miss Latimer almost upon his arrival back in Milton. He did not relish the thought of this interview, but had never been one to cower in the face of confrontation, holding ever to the notion that _“If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly”._

Anne entered the parlour with the stealth of a jungle cat, sighing silently at the sight of the one she held in truly high regard, given that it was not in her nature to love and love deeply. So distracted was he as he rehearsed his speech in his mind, he did not hear the sibilant rustling of her skirts as she glided towards the back of him. He startled when she entered the periphery of his vision, but this was not the only shock to his senses she had in store. 

Her crystal gaze roved possessively over his countenance, searching for some unknown, unmarked thing. He stood stock still, instinctively allowing her this short appraisal that would probably be her last. She raised her delicate hand as if she would press it lovingly against his cheek, then pulled back, before slapping him soundly across the face. 

For a moment he did not raise his gaze, that had been cast down and off to the side with incredible force for so slight a person. With several deep breaths he calmed himself, staying his wrath and the animalistic instinct to retaliate by reminding himself that such a blow was, in all fairness, probably well deserved. 

He pulled his hand from his cheek, and postured to his full height, an instinctive impulse aimed at dissuading the lady, lest she be tempted to strike him again.

“Miss Latimer.” 

“John.”

For a moment they stood in goading silence. John was at a loss, as his carefully prepared explanations and apologies had been scattered all about the room when she struck him. 

“Well?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well? What have you to say for yourself? Or for us, for that matter?”

Her tone was clipped and her expression indignant. She made no effort to demure, or honey, or display any of the behaviours John had seen before. He rubbed his cheek. It was turning an angry shade of pink. 

“Come now John!” she cried, throwing up her hands. “Either you have come to apologise for your scandalous behaviour, and continue our association; or to apologise and end it. Which one will it be?”

“The latter.” replied he, momentarily thrown by such an easy introduction into the subject at hand. 

As he had predicted her expression betrayed no great feeling of injury. With a disappointed huff she turned away from him, pacing for a few moments as she gathered her thoughts about her.

“I would have you know that I am willing to forgive your indiscretions this far. Even this last one, that has caused me no end of trouble. I can scarcely leave the house without being the recipient of pitying looks and whispers! And the rumours I have heard surrounding you, (fool that you are!) and your idiotic pursuit of one who so clearly _would not have you_!”

She stopped in her pacing and faced him squarely.

“But a few week’s gossip is nothing in comparison to a lifetime of success in marriage. And that is still what I want, John, in spite of your insult to me. Marriage, and success. With you. Will you not reconsider?”

“No, I am afraid not. I am afraid that I cannot, even if I wished to.”

“And why is that?”

“Because although I found myself so _artfully_ bound to an engagement to you, I have since learned that I was twice bound to Miss Hale, once by honour, and again by a different, higher power.”

“Is that so?” she asked, feigning fascination with a raise of her eyebrows, “and which power might that be?”

“Love, Miss Latimer.”

In an instant her expression transformed into one of such rage; such disgust, that underneath his strong, impassive exterior John fairly quaked at the sight of it. Her face flushed pink, then crimson, and her whole body began to tremble, much like a pot of boiling water threatening to bubble over, as she clenched and released fistfuls of her skirts in her small hands.

“Love?!” she spat, “ _Love_?! John Thornton, when will you see that there are more important things in life than love?!”

Rushing towards him she took fierce purchase on his arms, knocking him a few steps backwards in doing so.

“What of Ambition? What of Position? What of _Power_? You and I could be the first family of Milton, nay, the first family of Darkshire! With my Father’s wealth, we could double, triple your enterprise. You could buy out the other mills, ascend to the status of the Cotton Lords of old. Or, when you tired of business, you could run for parliament! And as Magistrate… perhaps a peerage, or a knighthood!”

John was shocked. He had known that his wealth and status had been a great part of the appeal he held for Miss Latimer, but he had not suspected the extent of her ambition. Some part of him even admired her for it, unusual as it was to encounter such enterprise in a woman. But these summits, or some of them at least, might still be in her reach, even if she achieved them with some other man by her side. He told her so, and was quite taken aback when she let out a peal of wry laughter, scrubbing the back of her hand across her forehead. 

“Oh John, you know nothing of the hardship of my sex! We women have no weapons in our armoury, except the charms that recommend us for marriage. Would that I could select ventures and schemes in which to lure ambitious men into investing great sums of money! Would that I could command a mill floor, or assemble a workforce to build me a cotton empire! Would that I could grasp my future firmly in both hands, and mould it to whatever shape I wished! But I cannot, I cannot! I must sit idly by, waiting for someone to deign to marry me into his fortune, while I remain powerless to even earn my own.” 

She had been gesticulating wildly throughout her oration, and collapsed gracelessly onto a chair once finished, a tired look of defeat upon her countenance.

“And I fear, after this, my chances at a good marriage might also be behind me. No man, at least none with any of the qualities I seek, will want to associate with me once talk of our rupture gets out.”

She raised her gaze to meet his own with a small smile that did not reach her crystal eyes. 

“Even in being summarily rejected by a man, somehow it is still the business of women to suffer the consequences.”

John was cut to the heart. Her confession was that of a reality he had never known, and scarcely ever contemplated. Every one of his actions had been carried out in the unconscious certainty of the privilege that his sex and position afforded him. He had not thought of the extent of the damage he would leave in his wake, when he himself had little doubt that with time and effort, his own reputation would be recovered. He thought of his Mother, his sister, his Margaret, and Anne. Cunning temptress, formidable adversary, and a woman clearly destined for a place and time far beyond what her current environment had to offer her. 

He walked over to her and slid to his knees, taking one of her small hands in his own. She allowed it, but did not respond, her face cast down, refusing to meet his eye. 

“Miss Latimer, Anne… the dishonour is mine and mine alone, and I shall do my utmost to ensure that I am the one to bear the brunt of the scandal. By all means let it be said that I have used you ill, as indeed I have, both you and Miss Hale. My temper, my impetuous pride got the better of me time and time again, and now I must pay the price for my behaviour. But rest assured, I’ll not hear a single word spoken against you. I alone will be blamed for our rupture.”

At this she gave a small smile, and turned to face him archly. 

“And what of Miss Hale? Would she have you, tainted as you are?”

“Miss Hale has gone.” he admitted painfully, rising to his feet, and helping her up with him. “I did not see her. And I’ll thank you not to speak ill of her. She is clearly the least to blame.”

Anne pursed her lips in begrudging assent. Of course his saintly Miss Hale was the least culpable in their strange arrangement. How the great John Thornton had come to be ensnared by such an insipid creature, she would never fathom. What an inglorious waste it all was!

She ran her hands up the broad plains of his chest, clothed as it was in his habitual wool waistcoat and jacket. She savoured the sensation she would never know again, and had come to enjoy, much to her own surprise. The foreign feeling of defeat began to ebb away, her furious indignation rushing back as she imagined the unfettered access Miss Margaret Hale would soon have to every inch of him, body and soul. The thought repulsed her, and she tightened her grip on his lapels as she turned over bitter and vengeful ideas in her mind. 

“I wish you every happiness, Miss Latimer,” he said, his voice gentle and sincere, and laden with that strange fondness that asserts itself at the end of almost every acquaintance.

She loosened her grip, but clung to him still. The fiery indignance in her eyes gave way to some other emotion. John thought he saw pain as she looked up at him, but it was soon replaced, like an orange-red flame that turns icy blue when it begins to burn the hottest.

“And I wish you hell, John Thornton. And I shall see that you get it.” 

* * *

John was free, but he could not yet fully enjoy his freedom. The knowledge weighed heavily on him that every new development in regards to Miss Hale was still completely one-sided. Although he had determined to leave Margaret to the recovery of her spirits, he had decided that he would strive to ensure that she did not forget him, and his great love for her, for surely she had some inkling of the fact. The thought of some other handsome, scheming, gentleman, (for what other sort could there possibly be?) preying on her when she was at her most vulnerable haunted his thoughts throughout the day and coloured his nightmares, night after night. He lingered at his desk, long after the household had gone to sleep, attempting to compose a missive that would adequately convey the heavy burden of his heart. 

There he sat on one such night, coat and cravat discarded, jacket unbuttoned and shirtsleeves rolled up over his lean forearms, as they flexed and twitched with the fine motions of etching his love onto the page. Hordes of failed attempts littered the floor around him, spiralling out from where he sat to the distance to which he had thrown them, representing the circles of his own personal hell, as he worked doggedly at his latest composition. 

_Miss Hale,_

_Having only recently learned of several extenuating circumstances surrounding_ _our acquaintance, I am writing to inform you that I have done the necessary to ensure I am in a position to honour my duty to yourself, following our encounter_ _that occurred on the day of the riot at Marlborough Mills, on Thursday 26th of September last year, between the hours of nine and eleven o’clock..._

Oh no! That was terrible! His words read like one of his magistral reports: clinical, and cold. Perhaps he’d better try again, and put a little more heart into it.

_Miss Hale,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I only discovered your note a few days ago,_ _but please be assured that you are most welcome to my forgiveness, if only in exchange for the hope of your one day welcoming my love, as you once_ _welcomed my kiss, so very unreservedly, I have been informed…_

Egads! That was worse! He had not intended to barter for her affections, or make her uneasy by his lustful enthusiasm. He merely wished to assure her that, in his eyes, she had done no wrong, and perhaps give some indication of his feelings and newfound eligibility. 

Suddenly the inspiration hit him that he should write her a poem. He had noted with interest how many of the volumes he had inherited from his late tutor had been classic and contemporary verse. He had heard it said that poetry was ‘ _the food of love’,_ and silently congratulated himself on such a masterful idea. 

But scarcely an hour later he found himself cursing whoever it was that first conceived that pitting words against one another in rhyme could possibly lead to anything but repeated head-banging on the table and sudden-onset indigestion. As he perused his latest abomination**, he cringed at his comparison of her skin _‘so pale’,_ to milk _‘bottled and ready to go on sale’_ . He had ruined the line about her _‘accent from the south’_ and _‘beautiful mouth’_ by comparing her full lips to that of a _‘decent-sized trout’_ . He didn’t dare read any further, already regretting his praise of her _‘full cheeks and upturned chin, like a squirrel in the Autumn carrying many nuts within’._

With an exasperated groan he tore up the page, flinging the shredded strips about the room in frustration. He rose to his feet and began angrily grasping at the small balls of paper that lined the floor, casting them into the fire with a vengeance. If only he could inscribe his love in tabulated form, as he did the mill accounts and ledgers. It would only be too easy to convey the true extent of his devotion in such a methodological fashion. 

Disheartened, he flung himself onto his bed, not bothering to divest himself of the rest of his clothing, as his thoughts blurred into an exhausted haze. He would try again tomorrow evening, once his business at the mill and his meeting at the bank was over. With his final conscious thought he swore an oath to himself that he would evermore resist every urge to express himself in rhyme. Who knew his ineptitude with the written word was so great? Hmm… perhaps he could draw her a picture. 

* * *

The next morning John made his way across the town centre to the prestigious, red brick building of Milton’s First National Bank. His meeting with Mr Latimer had been arranged weeks ago, and although there was business to be discussed, John knew that he would also have to address his recent break with Anne. Several days had passed since his heated rupture with Anne in her Midsbury parlour, and John felt keenly that he had already left the uncomfortable conversation with her father far too late. 

Mr Latimer was cordial enough, as was his habit, although John felt rather than saw the old banker’s eyes linger upon him with more scrutiny than he was used to in their previous acquaintance. Still, the man retained the air of friendly formality throughout their discussion, which centred around the Mill’s financial future. As luck would have it, for it was undoubtedly a question of luck, Watson’s American speculation had been wildly successful, and almost every other cotton Master had benefited in proportion to their investment in the scheme, so therefore to varying degrees. 

The outcome was that most of the other Milton Mills had enjoyed their unexpected windfall, glad of the influx of cash to counter the loss of income that had been caused by the strike. But the bank remained lenient to those who had not participated, cognizant that the industry would need a little longer respite. Besides lamenting the fact that John had not participated in such a lucrative scheme, which would have been ample to clear all his debts, their business was concluded without event, both Banker and Master satisfied with the latter’s projections for the mill’s progress over the next six to twelve months. 

Before John had the chance to broach the topic of his former engagement, Mr Latimer had already beckoned him into the bankers’ lounge. There he gestured that his client should take his ease, before calling for drinks, seemingly without thought of how early in the day it was. In charged silence they sat, and John had little option than to down his brandy as his companion studied him with an unusual expression that was half-disapproval, half-understanding. 

“Now Thornton, what’s all this business between you and Anne?”

Thornton cleared his throat. He would speak plainly. That was the best way.

“I must apologise, Mr Latimer. I should have come to you sooner. I am sorry to confirm that Miss Latimer and I have ended our engagement.”

“She says _you_ ended it.”

“Yes, I am afraid I found myself with no other alternative.”

“Really? You intrigue me Thornton.” 

The old man’s countenance was unreadable, as he leaned forward in his chair to indicate that he was giving his full attention. Whether his curiosity was sincere, or he was merely humouring his former, future son-in-law, John could not tell.

John took in a deep breath, and related the concise, palatable version of events he had rehearsed in his head ever since his return to Milton. He consciously omitted any mention of love as his primary motivator, choosing to emphasize the need for honour in the resolution of such complex circumstances.

Mr Latimer’s mouth fell open, if just for a moment, before he looked away, to piece together the barrage of new information he had just received. 

“So… If I have understood ye’ correctly, ye’ mean to tell me that you were seen embracing another young woman most inappropriately just months before ye’ ventured to do th’ same with my Anne?”

Thornton’s eyes darted about as he considered the question.

“Well... yes...” he replied sheepishly.

The old banker rounded his eyes.

“Although in my defence, I was not fully conscious in the first instance, and in the second it was not I who instigated the…”

He stopped short, his honour forbidding him from further sullying Miss Latimer’s reputation, however much she might have deserved it. 

Latimer sighed, slumping back in his chair and appraising John with a knowing look. 

“Aye, ye’ needn’t say anymore on th’ matter. I can well imagine the rest. Poor child! Corrupted by her mother’s teaching. Did I ever tell ye’ she was a waitress when we met? Then before I knew it, my little Anne had been born. But one thing I’ve learnt: Ye’ can take the girl out th’ gutter but never th’ gutter out th’ girl! I thought by sending her to Switzerland I might remedy some of her waywardness but it appears even in that I have failed.” 

John squirmed, uncomfortable at Mr Latimer’s coarse treatment of the women in his family. He glanced at the clock above the door, willing the interview to be over. 

“But I mus’ say I’m surprised at ye’, Thornton. I’d ‘a thought an ‘andsome young buck like yeself would’a known better!”

“Beg ye’ pardon?”

“Women, Thornton! A man doesn’t dally about with the women in his circle… they are bound to be complications, and have all kinds of expectations! And scandal… always causing scandal, whenever they feel they’ve been wronged! Poor women, working class women; spinners, shopgirls… they don’t make any fuss, and are easy to get rid of when the time comes.”

John gaped at Latimer, shocked and offended in every fibre of his being. He needed to go, needed to leave, before his anger got the better of him and he sent this abhorrent pig of a man out the window or into the wall.

“I do not dally either way Mr Latimer. And I am aware that there will be some gossip, but I am fully prepared to shoulder the scandal entirely. Let it be known that I am to blame for the whole thing, for I care little for the idle tittle-tattle of Milton and it’s fishwives.”

“But John, I beg ye’, think about it! The announcement has already been made, and you and Anne are a good match. Neither of you will ever be welcomed into the highest echelons of society, as Miss Hale has. You’re a tradesman, and she’s a tradesman’s daughter. You’ll not likely find any better, and I’m sure you’ll be a good husband to ‘er, in all the ways that matter. And no doubt you’ll have plenty of opportunity for tot-hunting: Young, handsome card like you’ll have yer’ pick of any filly ye’ like!”

This was one insinuation too much, and John rose to steady the wrath that threatened to break through the fists he held tightly clenched at his side, and mark his fury upon the countenance of his insulter. 

“Mr Latimer, I will not be swayed in my decision.” he declared in as even a tone as he could muster, “I wish you and your daughter every personal happiness and success in life, and have no doubt that as gentlemen we can continue our relationship inasmuch as it pertains to Marlborough Mills. But I really must be going. I cannot imagine there can be anything more to say on the matter.”

With a dejected sigh the banker rose and appraised the young master with a defeated, almost apologetic grimace. But John hardly noticed, eager as he was to quit the pungent lounge and the equally repellent company.

“I see. Very well then, Thornton. Stop by my secretary’s office, there’s some paperwork for ye’ that ye’ might as well take with ye’ now.”

With a handshake and a brief word of goodbye, he left the building, stopping only to collect said correspondence before making his way back to Marlborough Mills. Once he arrived and settled, a small sense of victory crept over him, and he felt himself relaxing and, for the first time in many days, enjoying the day’s work. 

Soon the day was all but spent and his workers were filing out and dissipating in the direction of their respective homes. Thornton collected his things and decided to finish the rest of his work in the comfort of the mill house, after what he hoped would be an early dinner with his mother. He had had another sudden inspiration for a letter for Margaret, and was eager to retire to the seclusion of his private study to attend to it. 

Once settled at his desk, he leafed through the pile of correspondence and paperwork until a single envelope arrested his attention. It was already addressed, and bore the bank’s postmark which meant that the sender must have intended to post it that afternoon. Curious, as he already had in his possession all the deeds and records of his dealings with the bank, he tore the letter from it’s casing, before dropping the letter opener and envelope on the floor in shock, and scanning the missive once again in disbelief.

_To Mr. J. Thornton,_

_...in regards to the moratorium we have offered Marlborough Mills … in relief of the payment owed for the debt of £800 to the bank ..._

_... expect payment on the loan to recommence thirty days’ hence... at the previously agreed 4.3% interest, ... arrears for the entire period of non-repayment… expect the sum of one hundred and thirty-three pounds and fourteen shillings… 1st April 1851…_

A quiet rage stole over him, as his eyes dropped down to the signature that so elegantly adorned the bottom of the page.

_Yours, respectfully,_

_Mr F. Latimer_

_On behalf of Milton’s First National Bank_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *If anyone is interested, I have started a short of John's adventures in Helstone. Let me know in the reviews/comments if that's something ya'll would be interested in reading.
> 
> **Likewise, I intend to publish John Thornton's failed attempt at poetry, "An Ode to Margaret Hale" in an epilogue, or annex to this story.
> 
> Thanks again for all the reads, likes, favourites, comments and reviews, and the kind folk who asked after my health, I am doing a little better, thankfully. Strange beast, this virus...
> 
> Special thanks to Claudia Lomond and TheScribbler for their opinion/help on this chapter.


	14. Reasons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, yes, that's right, two chapters in one week! I know... I've gone mad with power and paracetamol! 
> 
> Thanks as ever for the kudos, likes, favourites and follows, but mostly for the reviews and comments. There really is nothing like reading a reader's impressions of something that you've worked so hard at...
> 
> Don't forget to let me know in the comments, reviews or DMs if you're interested in some more fluffy stuff, so I can prioritize what to work on next, as this story draws to a close.
> 
> Buen provecho pa' todos...

Everything was the same.

Everything was exactly as she remembered it. Not a thing had changed. Not since she had last left once her Edith had married the Captain. Not since she had first arrived, a shy, shaken ten-year old, struggling to comprehend what offence she had caused that her parents should cast her so far away from her home and everything she held dear. 

The door knocker was the same. The aging butler was the same. The carpet, the hallway, the creak in the second to last step to her upholstered quarters was the same. The past three years had turned every hidden crevice of her life upside down but here, in Harley Street, not a breath of time had been felt. 

She had feigned exhaustion on the train, focusing her dwindling energy on breathing in and out as her aunt had groaned and grumbled and griped about everything under the sun, with only the occasional (usually nonsensical) interjection from Captain Lennox. She had declined any refreshment upon arrival, greeting her cousin with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, which was not very much at all.

Edith had been delighted to receive her cousin, although even she could be sensible of the tragic circumstances that had brought Margaret back under their roof. She had lead Margaret to her old room, and seen that she had all she might need, before leaving the weary, orphan traveller to her rest, instructing one of the maids to keep an attentive ear open for her bell. Margaret was to have every gentle comfort to get her through these trying times.

But Margaret’s greatest immediate comfort, once she had washed and divested herself of her travelling clothes, was to collapse into an unladylike heap on top of the opulent coverlet that matched the silk-papered walls and most of the upholstery. She scrunched up her face, a wave of emotion crashing over her suddenly, but found that it was an ungainly yawn, and not a guttural sob, that broke forth. In a matter of minutes, she was asleep. 

In her repose she was transported, back to her seat in the close compartment on the train, made closer still by her aunt’s dissatisfied soliloquy and Captain Lennox’s constant enquiries about the direction in which lay the ocean. Exasperated, she turned away from her companions to look out the window, hoping the withering woodlands and dry vegetation might take her mind off their insufferable company. As the scenery rushed past, it took on an unnatural hue, as if the objects were no longer real but were painted in watercolour, or etched in charcoal. Out of their swarming haze a small mass of black arrested her attention, growing larger and larger as if it were coming towards her. 

She rose to her feet, pressing her nose against the glass window pane to observe the curious black clot that she knew instinctively meant her no harm. As it approached, the train’s mechanical song gave way to a thunderous clattering of hooves, and the mass transformed into a scowling horseman atop a magnificent black steed.

Margaret thrilled inside, knowing as one knows things in dreams, that the man was coming to save her. He caught up with the train in an instant, and she marvelled as Horse and Rider raced the great locomotive with apparent ease.

“Mr Thornton” she called, the window before her suddenly vanished. He did not look up.

“Mr Thornton!” she tried again, and still, he did not hear her.

“Mr… John!” at this he turned to face her, and Margaret startled at his expression. He looked as if she had borne him the greatest injury a man could ever know, and the sight of her had only served to remind him of it. 

His strong, gloved hands pulled back on the reins, slowing down the steed, and stopping his race against the train. Anxiously, Margaret reached out for him, hands outstretched in supplication that he not abandon his pursuit of her.

“John! Mr...oh!” 

Her feet gave way and she tumbled forwards, clasping her hands across her head to break the fall. She awoke with a rude jolt back on her bed, in her room, on Harley Street.

* * *

In the months that followed, every day in Harley Street resembled the last, and usually also the one before that. Margaret slept a great deal, and when she was not sleeping, she could be found buried in her sketchbook, filling page after page with scenes of urban sprawl, faceless poverty and grime. It was not long before her new hobby caught the attention of her companions; of one, in particular, who had wasted no time in becoming as ubiquitous as the yappy Maltese long-hairs Aunt Shaw kept skittering about the house at all times. Henry called at Harley Street on almost a daily basis, and made no secret of his keen interest in the innermost workings of Margaret’s daily life. 

**“** I say, what do you make of all these?”

Edith and her husband looked up to see Henry walking towards them. He held a patched up sketchbook in one hand, and several loose charcoal drawings in the other. 

“What’s all this?” said Maxwell.

“Aren’t those Margaret’s? Wherever did you get them?” asked Edith with a frown.

Henry paused, his mind rushing to conceive of an explanation that did not involve his improper snooping about in a lady’s things.

“Oh, you know… the thing is, I just can’t seem to make them out. What do you think Edith? Your artistic sensibilities have always been far more acute than mine.”

His ruse worked. Edith was as easy to distract as a babe with a plaything.

“Hmm… It looks like a sketch of London to me. All those tall buildings.”

“London… or some other city.”

“Milton perhaps! Yes, perhaps she is drawing what she remembers of Milton!”

Captain Lennox leant over the page, scrutinizing every detail as if he were some great connaisseur.

“Yes, that’s Milton alright. No ships.” he said knowingly.

“And whom do you suppose that is?” Henry pointed centre left of the page. There was a dark outline of a man standing under a lampost, half of his figure shaded into obscurity. Sketched tall and broad from the back, his only discerning feature was his top hat.

“Hmm… I could not say. Maxwell, any ideas?”

“It must be some acquaintance… I say! Who do we know who owns a top hat?”

Edith thought for a moment, her delicate brow creasing slightly at the exertion.

“Why Henry! Yes! Henry, it must be you!”

“Me?!” he asked incredulously.

“Yes! You have a top hat! I saw you with it this morning.”

“Yes, I believe you must be right my dear, he does have one, for I saw him wearing it last week!”

Henry gaped at the pair of them.

“Of course I have a top hat! As do you Maxwell, and Rogers, and Captain Piper, and Lord knows how many other Englishmen across the country!” 

“Ah… yes… you might have a point there.” conceded Maxwell.

“So… whom do you think it is?” 

“I do not know!” declared Edith, visibly bored by the mystery, “perhaps it is Uncle Hale, or some other person she knew there.”

“But he features in every one of her sketches. Do not think it odd that…”

“No Henry, I do not think it odd. I do not think it anything at all! Maxwell, shall we call on the Gladstones next week, I do believe Mary is about to announce her…”

“There must be more to it than that!” interrupted Henry, loath to drop the subject he felt was of great significance.

“Margaret has always sketched, Henry, you know that! Perhaps this is just her way of recording her memories of Milton, and the loss of her parents there. Look at the figure, look how she has drawn him as one with all the darkness and grime. I am sure Margaret has included him because he is some awful northern person who reminds her of that awful northern place!” 

“Perhaps it is that Mr Bell.” suggested Maxwell, “I am sure Margaret must be missing him terribly since he left. They were jolly close.”

“I am quite sure his parting gift was consolation enough,” scoffed Henry, “The old goat left her everything! No, I can’t imagine she’d be mourning  _ his _ loss, considering how much she has benefitted from it.”

“Then you do not know Margaret at all.” said Edith, her uncharacteristic solemnity quite startling her brother-in-law, “and you’d do well to rectify things on that score, if you ever hope to have another chance with her.” she added with a theatrical whisper, “Margaret cares nothing for money, only for people.”

Only slightly abashed, Henry hastily returned the portfolio to the location he had first discovered it, making sure to remain undetected as he quietly closed her bedroom door behind him. The feeling lingered that those dark cityscapes somehow held some concealed revelation about Margaret’s innermost thoughts, but at this juncture he could do naught but speculate.

Margaret had only just entered into half-mourning, exchanging her morose, black garb for a slightly more flattering lavender. And any time he had spent in her company had been consumed with the discussion of her newfound wealth and responsibilities. 

Mr Bell had, in keeping with his idiosyncratic ways, conceived to hand over almost the entirety of his great fortune, in both property and monies, to his Goddaughter, before setting sail for South America, where he planned to live out his few last days being warmed by the Argentine sun. Although the company at Harley Street had rejoiced for Margaret’s sudden turn of fortune, they were, for the most part, completely ignorant that the inheritance had only been the second option at financial security and freedom that Mr Bell had offered her. 

But Henry had suspected, and had opted to bide his time until the opportune moment, presenting himself as a disinterested friend and counsellor in all matters regarding the administration of her fortune. When the occasion presented itself for him to broach a more personal subject, he had not cowered at the chance, but rather seized hold of it with both hands, and his teeth for good measure. But they had not revisited the topic since.

* * *

Several weeks later, as they sat working through some financial propositions one afternoon, Margaret turned to her companion.

“Henry, have we received a reply from Marlborough Mills?”

In truth she did not want a reply from Marlborough Mills. She wanted a reply from its Master. But she had not said his name out loud since her hurried departure from Milton several months ago. She had no reason to start now.

Henry didn’t look up as he began to rummage about the haphazard pile of correspondence on the table, thrilling inwardly at her use of ‘we’. 

“I do not believe  _ we _ did. I believe I sent both letters in good time, as well as the note you requested on Monday last.” He schooled his features into some semblance of nonchalance. “What would you have me do?” he asked, looking up.

Margaret frowned. This didn’t make any sense at all. Even before leaving the North she had been aware of the damage and delays the workers’ strike had caused Milton’s cotton industry. In inheriting Mr Bell’s enormous fortune, she had also inherited Marlborough Mills, and the adjoining Mill house that Mr Thornton and his mother called home. She had been shocked to hear of the Mill’s closure due to Mr Thornton’s inability to make repayments on the bank loan, particularly as the bank in question was partly owned and entirely run by Mr Latimer, Mr Thornton’s future father-in-law.

_ No, actual father-in-law _ , she corrected.

Concerned for the future of the mill’s workers and, above all else, its Master, she had asked Henry to draft her proposition that the payment of rent on both buildings be frozen for the next six months, or however long was needed. She had also set up a separate fund from which she had instructed Henry to invest generously in the business itself- a sum far exceeding that which was needed to pay off the loan on the machinery that had thus far held the business hostage; as well as the arrears from the period of leniency that had brought about its collapse. Her intervention would have left Mr Thornton virtually debt free, and his workers with a secure payroll for the next three quarters at least. 

But the lifeline she had offered Mr Thornton and his life’s work had gone unanswered. Twice. It was unlike him, she thought. Although she did not require his gratitude; she had acted for love and love alone, but she did worry that some terrible fate might have befallen him. That the collapse of the mill and everything he had worked so hard for might have been too heavy a burden for his already overwrought shoulders to bear. She thought often of her late father’s own concerns for his friend: not for his business, but for his spirit. He had succeeded once in raising his family from the clutches of poverty and disgrace; Mr Hale had doubted that John had it in him to do it all again. 

No, this silence was decidedly out of character. Mr Thornton might not ever want to see her again after her rude removal without as much as a goodbye, but he was a man of business and would have acted accordingly, acknowledging the proposal at the very least. She decided a trip to Milton was necessary, even if it was to learn that the worst had happened. She suggested that she go, but Henry advised against it. There was no need for her to trouble herself in returning to that painful place, where she had known little else but sadness and grief. No, he would go in her stead. He would visit Marlborough Mills and its workers, apparently so dear to Margaret’s heart, and would return to give her a full report. 

Margaret sighed and thanked Henry. In truth she did not relish the idea of revisiting all the loss and heartbreak that she had known amidst that great, grey smoke cloud. She missed the bustle; she missed her friends, but she was certain her sudden appearance at Marlborough Mills would not be welcome to at least two of Milton’s most prominent members. 

“Three if you count the mother,” she muttered to herself.

“What was that?” asked Henry.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Thank you Henry, you are such a help to me.” She said sincerely, relieved by his assistance in this matter.

As her thoughts clawed their way out of deepest, darkest Milton, she could not help but compare the man whom she had built up as standard in her mind, to the fine gentleman that stood before her. He cut a far less imposing figure than Mr Thornton, his frame was narrower and his build more lithe than the formidable darkshireman. But he was generally considered handsome, in a clean, kempt sort of way. He was just tall enough to be a compatible dance partner for Margaret, but not so tall as to require stooping in order to plant a lustful kiss on her full lips. Indeed, he had imagined doing so on several occasions, but had thought the better of it. She was, after all, only a sheltered clergyman’s daughter, and not yet completely out of mourning. And things were not yet settled. 

He was still unsure of her regard for him. He was the first person she sought whenever she needed counsel, and it appealed to his male pride to be her first port of call. They had spent many an afternoon in each other’s company as he explained the ins and outs of her new financial responsibilities. He had marvelled at how quickly she had grasped the diverse structures Mr Bell had put in place, and her determination in the allocation of her numerous pockets of wealth to very specific causes. He had refrained from giving his opinion on any of her financial choices, as his calculations had assured him that even were she to part with half of her fortune, the remaining sum would be more than ample for them to live and raise a family on, as well as to purchase the legal practice and London offices he had set his sights on in the past couple of years. 

But Henry knew that was not all she had to offer. On the occasions when those long afternoons darkened into evenings, he welcomed the subtle droop of her shoulders and her stifled yawns. In spite of himself he took a kind of predatory pleasure in knowing that her guard was down. 

Her months of grieving had left her tired, and when she grew weary at the day’s end she was less reserved, less aware of his glances, his touches. He would move closer to her, relishing any opportunity to rearrange the papers that lay to the other side of her. Inclining his body over her own, he would inhale her intoxicating, feminine scent, and revel in the warmth of her closeness. If she were particularly absorbed by her study, or exhaustion, he might even be so bold as to brush his fingers across the soft skin of her arms or the small of her back, as he reached for this document or that book. 

He allowed himself to gaze uninhibited at her plush, plump mouth as she nibbled on her bottom lip when attempting to focus on a particularly challenging concept or instruction. He almost forgot himself once, when her tongue had darted out to wet that soft, pillowy mouth, and she had closed her eyes in concentration for several moments, her lips slightly parted. She had startled to find him staring so intently at her, and he had had to make his excuses expediently, in order to avail himself of some fresh air, as well as other, more unmentionable forms of relief. 

Oblivious to his attention, Margaret had always considered his company enjoyable. Before Milton, in the weeks leading up to her dear cousin’s wedding they had become fast friends, their exchanges a welcome respite from the inane hustle and bustle of all the preparations. They had laughed at the same things, although Henry’s humour often betrayed a cruel cynicism to which Margaret could not relate. He was well-bred, intelligent and fairly wordly, but there was nothing earnest in his opinions, nor genuine in his interests. She did not feel that she knew Henry. She was not entirely convinced that there was all that much to know.

And yet, she had not refused. This time, when he had asked for her hand once again, she had not rejected him. She did not love Henry, no, that much hadn’t changed and was not likely to. The Master of her heart was far, so very far removed from her, in both situation and sentiment, and undoubtedly bound before Man and God to another far more deserving than she. Margaret was sure she would never love again, at least not in that same, passionate and petrifying way. Perhaps friendship was the next best thing? She did like Henry, for the most part. They already spent a considerable amount of time together. 

She had told him to be patient. That she needed time to put her affairs in order, or at least gain some understanding of the order they had been left in by Mr Bell. In truth she was tired. Exhausted in fact, drained from all the turmoil her heart, mind and soul had been through over the past eighteen months. The idea of somebody familiar; a companion, was comforting to her, and his connection to Edith and Aunt Shaw most assuredly marked a point in his favour. And she was not sure she had it in her to refuse him, or anyone, again. 

So it was arranged. Henry bade her goodnight, politely declining the invitation to stay for dinner. He intended to catch the seven o’clock train to Milton, and therefore would be retiring early. Margaret also excused herself from the meal. Her reminiscences had left her feeling sentimental and her concern for their protagonist weighed heavily on her heart and shoulders. She would retire. She would sketch. She would remember. 

Then she would wake the next day and wait for news of it all. 

  
  



	15. Rivalry

As the Church bells rang out over the ubiquitous smog of Milton, that had refused to relinquish its chokehold even on a day such as this, John Thornton could not help but feel regret. Had things been different, had he not acted such a fool, it might have been his own wedding that had lured all of Milton out in their finery to celebrate along with him this day. 

And yet ever the devoted brother, he expelled any thought of self-pity from his mind. Today was not about things that could have been. Or things that _should_ have been. Today was Fanny’s day.

John had lost count of the times over the past months that he had thanked the Gods above and below for giving him the foresight all those years ago of settling a small, monthly sum on his sister, by way of securing she was well set up come her wedding day. Granted, she had probably spent the entirety of it on her gown alone, for John had never seen so many rolls and ruffles, not in all of Milton’s draperies combined. But she was happy, and she would be taken care of, and that was all that mattered.

He was relieved the blessed event would be over soon, as it had been quite the herculean task to keep the rumours surrounding the failure of Marlborough Mills hidden from the public. He did not want his sister’s nuptials to be marred by gossip surrounding his own affairs, business or otherwise. As it was, there had been enough talk of his own scandalous rupture with Miss Latimer to satiate even the appetites of Milton’s most stalwart fishwives. He had left her in pursuit of Miss Hale; she had left him in pursuit of some other, wealthier candidate who had had the insight to invest in the lucrative scheme that had made George Watson, his new brother-in-law, into a veritable wonderboy. John had abstained, and so his mill had failed, and therefore Anne had abandoned him. 

He found amusement in the fact that not a single version he had heard of the story had gotten it quite right. That he had behaved unbearably ill, and had had his comeuppance by being trapped by Miss Latimer. She in turn had meted out her own form of punishment upon his own rejection of her, by twisting her father’s arm that he might do the ungentlemanly deed of going against his word, and forcing John and his mill into an impossible financial position. And her revenge had been cruel, audacious and complete. John smiled ruefully. How very like her. 

He watched as the portly procession of Milton’s Mill Masters exited the stone church, and felt a wrench of injured pride at the knowledge he was no longer counted amongst their ranks.

Following Mr Latimer’s extraordinary missive, John had worked throughout the night to try and conceive of some strategy that would ensure that his men did not suffer the fallout of his mishandled personal affairs. He had calculated that he just had enough to meet both the new demands of the bank and that of his men’s payroll for seven weeks exactly. At which point, he would be faced with two options: either to dismiss his men to pay off another month’s debt and arrears; or sell off the machinery to pay his men one last month’s wages, before officially declaring bankruptcy. 

Throughout his years of business, John had always striven to _neither a borrower nor a lender be_ , in as much as he could help it. And yet found himself overcome with a fierce loyalty to his men, which was in no small way exacerbated by a feeling of antagonism towards Milton’s bank, and more particularly, its foremost banker. 

Thankfully, talk of his own descent in the world had become eclipsed somewhat by the tittle-tattle surrounding Fanny’s own wedding to a Master who was more than twice her senior. John had closed his Mill’s doors only days earlier, and his mother and his own removal to Crampton was scheduled for the days that would follow, whilst Fanny was away on her wedding journey. It was decided that John would take Watson’s place as Master for the duration of their six-week tour of the continent, before being demoted to overseer upon his brother-in-law’s return. In hindsight, it had all fallen into place quite neatly.

But such tidy arrangements did little in the way of stopping the mouths of those who were all too hungry for any morsel of gossip surrounding the formidable and impassive Master and Magistrate; whose first chaotic foray into love had proven than he did indeed have a heart. Although by all accounts, he had also shown that he had little idea what to do with it. 

Of necessity he had developed the habit of silencing many street corner; many a market stall; and many a society room at the club with one of his petrifying, penetrative glares that would brook no provocation nor suffer any fool. He did not much care what people had to say about his own self, but he could not stand for the bandying of the names of either of the ladies involved, and did not shy away from making his disapproval known in every quarter. 

Fortunately, there had been little need for him to resort to such defensive tactics at the wedding. Neither Miss Hale nor Miss Latimer had been present- the former for the obvious reason of not having been invited, and the latter, because she had been sent to visit friends in the country until the worst of the scandal had blown over. So there was very little occasion for the guests to gawk and gossip, aside from at the sheer ostentatiousness of the event. 

Indeed, for better or for worse, Fanny had succeeded in capturing everyone’s attention with the food and decorations, and not one but two wardrobe changes throughout the celebration. John had bitten back any instinct to roll his eyes at her excess, instead allowing himself to relax in the knowledge that, by his sister at least, he had done his rightful duty for the season of her life for which she had been entrusted to his care. As he bade farewell to the happy couple, and the throng of guests who had also taken their cue to depart, he heaved a sigh of weary relief, and started a little when he heard the breath echoed beside him.

“Well, that’s that then.”

“Yes. Thank God Fanny’s taken care of.”

“I think it went quite well. They both seemed happy enough. Now it’ll just be you and me again.”

“Aye. I’m sorry about the house, Mother.”

At this Hannah Thornton turned to her son, and in a moment of uncommon tenderness, reached up to cup his cheek.

“I don’t care about the house! I care about you! I know ye’ll always do right by me. Just make sure to do right by yeself as well.”

“I shall try, Mother,” he said with a wry smile, “now we’d best board up th’windows. There’ll be a storm later.”

* * *

Before John knew it, six weeks had passed, and he had been transferred to the post of overseer at a newer, smaller Mill that Watson had acquired with his American windfall. The machinery was in a horrid state of disrepair, having been purchased on the cheap, and the workers, although skilled, had great difficulty in maintaining any stable level of output. Watson had also refrained from hiring a second overseer, and had scarce set foot in his newest acquisition beyond the day of its purchase. 

His brother-in-law’s tight purse strings meant that more often than not John was left juggling the roles of Master, Overseer and Mechanic, although in truth, he really did not mind. There was no shame in hard work, and he much preferred to keep busy, abhorring, with twice the vigour that he had previously, every suspicion of idleness. He found that when his mind was left idle, it would invariably stray, and once it did, John discovered that it was nothing short of agony whenever it came crashing back into the cold emptiness that made up his here and now.

On one such day John was involved in the resolution of an issue that had arisen in the carding room. For half an hour he had been standing between two workers, who had somehow managed to comb their morning’s portion of cotton so thoroughly, that there was hardly any of it left to be spun into thread. The women had then set to squabbling, both stealing the cleaned cotton from under the other’s nose to add it to their pile, thus giving the impression to each that she had been more productive than the other. 

Both women were fearful, for they had heard of their new overseer’s reputation of severity on the mill floor. But what neither knew was that behind that stern expression, Thornton’s had wandered to the pleasant recollection of another, more fanciful occasion, involving the cunning robbery of his favourite tea biscuit, and by a most alluring thief he had ever encountered in all his years as magistrate.

He was interrupted in his reverie by the voice of one of the mill’s two appointed lackeys.

“Excuse me, but someone’s come down from London te’ see ye’ Mr Thornton, Sir. Said ‘tis ‘bout summat to do wit’ Marlborough Mills. ‘tis that Miss Hale… “ 

At the sound of her name Thornton turned on his heel, grabbing the coat he had removed and tossing it about his shoulders before he could hear the messenger stammer out the rest of his sentence.

“... that sent her agent t’come t’Milton t’settle ‘er affairs… Mr Thornton? Mr Thornton?!”

But he was gone.

John deftly wove his way through the bustling workers and thrumming machinery, absently running a grooming hand through his hair as he took the steps to his new office two at a time. He paused at the door, collecting himself and his wits about him, and tugging at his waistcoat and smoothing his lapels before pushing the door open ceremoniously. 

The disarming smile that had sprung unbidden to his lips dissolved in an instant, as he was met with the back of a fashionably cut figure that was decidedly more masculine than he had been expecting.

“You are not Miss Hale.”

Henry Lennox turned to the door with a start.

“Er, no…” he confirmed, appraising the formidable Darkshireman with a brief, upward sweep, “And assuredly you _cannot_ be Mr Thornton…”

John’s brow was furrowed, his mind readjusting from the inertia of not coming to face to face with the woman he longed to see. It took him a few moments to register Henry’s statement, and when he did, he felt something akin to amusement at it.

“I believe you will find that I can, Sir. In fact, it is a feat I have managed most successfully for the past thirty-two years.”

There was nothing in his voice or expression, save a smirk that could just as easily be mistaken for a grimace, that served to indicate that his reply had been in jest. Indeed Henry felt anxious that he had somehow caused this behemoth of a man offence, intimated as he was by the foreboding darkness in his voice and and the sheer size of his stature. 

Yet ever the consummate performer, Henry schooled his features into their habitual indifference, tinged only slightly with disdain. But on the inside his stomach was turning in onto itself, as some instinctive part of him warned that this man was a threat, although of what nature, his mind could not yet consciously conceive. 

John watched bemused as the dashing gentleman squared his shoulders and postured to his full height, but he felt no need to reciprocate. This stranger wasn’t the first member of the gentry he had had to suffer for the sake of their delusions of making a cotton-based fortune with a snap of their soft, uncalloused fingers. John had never striven to awe or impress, probably because it would be in such opposition to his nature to do either. Studying the man before him with frank curiosity, he procured yet a little more amusement from his mysterious decomposure. 

But in a moment he remembered what had first caused his haste in attending to this particular guest. Miss Hale... there had been some mention of Miss Hale.

“Well now, what can I do for you, Sir?” he asked, shooting surreptitious glances at every corner of the room in case one of them should reveal her thus far concealed form. He approached the man, towering at least a head above him at close range. 

He stuck out his hand. Henry flinched. John stifled a smile.

“John Thornton, at your service.”

Henry took the proffered appendage, and endeavoured to match the strength he felt pulsating there.

“Henry Lennox. I have come on behalf of Miss Margaret Hale.” 

Now it was John’s turn to flinch, the four-syllabled name assaulting not his ears, but his gut, as he made the painful association between its owner and his own beloved. The change upon his countenance did not go unnoticed, and in an instant, two questions appeared in the forefront of Henry’s mind: how was it that this man had heard of him before, since all three of his previous missives had apparently gone unopened; and what was the nature of that knowledge that would cause such an expression of anguish to colour that stern, impassive face?

At this juncture, there was a noticeable shift in tension. John unwittingly slouched a little as he took in all the patrician assets and aristocratic features of his rival, particularly those that he felt himself sorely lacking. The slight, unworked figure; the fine, polished accoutrements; the crisp, London accent. 

John lamented the grease stains on his forearms and the foreshadowing of whiskers he had left unattended across his jaw. Not to mention the hole in his inner jacket pocket that he had torn when mending a roller beam yesterday morning. There was no way this man, or anybody, could have noticed such a blemish, but John felt the ripped fabric burning a hole into his side. It was as if it wished to reiterate to the whole world how far removed John Thornton was from the loftiest circles of society- circles to which both Margaret and this fine, finished fellow naturally belonged. 

John turned away to walk around his desk, before inviting his guest to take a seat. His expression betrayed nothing of the turmoil within, as he leaned back in his chair and fixed the man with one of his most penetrative looks, as if he could discern the very nature of his visit, and relationship to Margaret, from staring alone. 

Henry took his time, pausing first to swipe a gloved hand across the seat to remove whatever dust or detritus he feigned seeing there. Silently he battled the urge to fidget, or wipe his brow under his host’s unyielding scrutiny, purposefully fumbling about with his case for longer than was necessary, using the delay to compose himself and consider his next move.

“So Mr Lennox, what do you want with me?”

_Damn!_ Goliath had beaten him to it! Nevermind, he would not be rushed into his business, not before he had discovered a little more about this man, and the reason behind Margaret’s determination to rescue his particular business from failure.

“I have come on behalf of Miss Margaret Hale,” he repeated, “She has appointed me her agent. I was given to understand that you were somewhat acquainted with the Hale family, Mr Thornton.”

“Yes, the late Mr Hale was a good friend.”

“And Mrs Hale?”

“A fine woman, from the few occasions I spent in her company.”

“And Miss Hale?”

His eyes flickered across John’s face for a fraction of a second, but John was ready. 

“There’s no denying Mr and Mrs Hale raised a daughter of exceptional character. Truly I am convinced I have never known anyone quite like her.”

Returning his impenitent gaze to meet Henry’s own, he added impulsively,

“She is greatly missed, here in Milton.”

Henry raised his eyebrows, unused to such a frank manner of speaking. 

“Missed? By whom exactly?”

John smiled, absently sliding one paper over another on his desk.

“By anyone who knew her, I would imagine.”

“You include yourself in that number?” 

John looked up curiously to meet the challenge in Henry’s question. If there _were_ any definite understanding between them, then surely this fine gentleman would have no need to guard his suit so protectively. 

Perhaps there was no engagement. Perhaps there was still a chance.

“Aye, I would that. Most definitely, Mr Lennox.” 

Henry turned back to his briefcase, his mind reeling as he retrieved the documents outlining Margaret’s proposal. He might have known, might have guessed that there was some reason why she had insisted on being so involved in its conception, so determined that no expense be spared and no part left to chance. And there it sat, tall, dark and foreboding, and studying him with the most irritating intensity that left Henry feeling even smaller than he already knew himself to be in comparison. There were grease-stains on Thornton’s hands and his clothes were last year’s fashion, and yet in Henry’s depth there was a voice that proclaimed that there was no way he could ever compete with such a man. Even his high, silk hat seemed to mock him, as it rested upon his desk- an arrogant confirmation of this man’s identity no longer in charcoal, but in the flesh.

But business was business and he had a mission to accomplish. It would hardly do to let Margaret down, particularly when he felt she was so close to being within his grasp.

“Then you will be glad of my purpose in travelling here today. I am sure you are aware that Miss Hale is now an heiress.” 

“I am.” said John, not trusting himself to say anymore on the sensitive matter.

Henry slid the proposal across the desk, along with three sealed envelopes. 

“These were sent to Marlborough Mills, but received no answer, although now I see why. Miss Hale did not think you would vacate the premises so expediently.”

“Once the Mill shut down, it didn’t make much sense to keep the house any longer.”

“Quite. Would you like to read through the letters, or shall I outline the proposal myself, now that I am here.”

“Are these from Miss Hale?”

“As per her instructions, yes. The first is in her own hand.”

“Then I shall read them later.” said he, tucking all three letters safely into his pocket with a private smirk. Henry’s brow contracted in response

“I am listening, Mr Lennox.”

Without further ado, or analysis, Henry launched himself in the explanation of the proposal he and Margaret had put together. Margaret had determined to do whatever was necessary to ensure that Marlborough Mill could be up and running at full capacity as soon as possible, and had been completely averse to any suggestion that would be of no benefit to that end, (such as arrears, or increasing the interest on repayments). Rent on both properties was to be frozen, and a third of her fortune invested in the business itself, which Henry himself had calculated would be ample to repay the Mill’s debts and ensure the worker’s payroll for the next six months at least.

Henry watched with mixed emotions as Mr Thornton’s eyes grew wide. Of course, the proposal must have been music to the ears of a man who had failed and fallen so low in his affairs. But there was something whimsical, wistful even, in the soft, upwards twitching of his mouth, which he found most unsettling. 

“Why?” 

Henry frowned.

“Forgive me, but I have not the pleasure of understanding you.”

John scoffed. How did anything get done in London, let alone in its Courts of Law, if a single-word question was enough to flummox a successful barrister so?

“I asked why… why would Miss Hale wish to part with her fortune to invest it in my failed enterprise?” 

He quirked an eyebrow provocatively.

“As her agent, you must have some idea.”

Henry was affronted. What did this man want to hear? That he and his filthy, grime-infested mill held some unique place in Margaret’s heart, that would lead her to perform such a grand gesture to save him? Well, Henry would give him no such satisfaction, no matter how much he feared that his own suspicions on the matter might be true.

“In enacting her proposal Miss Hale would by no means be parting with the _entirety_ of her fortune. Barely even a third of it, in fact.” he added glibly, “And I believe that in investing in your Mill, _Margaret_ would feel,” here he succeeded in making John wince, “as if she had done her christian duty by the employees she came to know and greatly care for during her time here in Milton.”

John rose to his feet and turned away from his guest to face the small window to the left of his desk. It would not do to let the cad to see his disappointment, but he was too late. Henry smiled at his back.

“ _Margaret_ has told me a great deal about the poverty and hardship she witnessed here.” he continued smugly, “I was shocked to learn of the misery and degradation she was forced to encounter on a daily basis, considering the gentle upbringing and instruction her parents strove to give her.”

Thornton scoffed again. Surely they were not talking of the same Margaret?

“If there is one thing I learned of Miss Hale during our acquaintance, Mr Lennox, it is that nobody can force her to do anything that she does not care to do. Any hardship she was exposed to, she did so of her own volition, often seeking it out in the most unusual ways. Truly, when I said she was exceptional, I meant I have never known any young lady so determined to extend kindness and compassionate care to all those she met, no matter the cost to herself.”

He turned to face his rival with a smile.

“As for her gentle upbringing, in all my dealings with the Hales I only ever saw her actions commended and encouraged by her parents, particularly her father. Nay, I am certain that any regrets the lady might have concerning her time in Milton would not be regarding the poverty she had been exposed to, as much as what more she might have done about it.”

Henry merely quirked an eyebrow, although on the inside his blood was boiling. Was this common tradesman, this uncouth, northern manufacturer, really claiming to know Margaret better than he? It was not to be borne.

“Just as you say. No doubt Margaret subscribes to the thought that all _Kindness which is bestowed on the good is never lost._ ”

He punctuated his remark with a derisory huff of laughter.

“Oh, forgive me, Mr Thornton, I am quoting Plato, the philosopher.” he added, not a little condescendingly.

“That is quite alright, Mr Lennox.” replied John freshly, “Although I have always thought it was the mark of Miss Hale’s magnanimity _that [she] ask no favour but be [always] ready to do kindness to others._ Especially when one places value on the notion _that it is easy to perform a good action, but not easy to acquire the settled habit of performing such actions,_ which is a feat the lady has mastered completely _.”_

He paused, and with an air of mock conspiracy, leant over the desk to speak lowly to his guest.

“Forgive _me_ , Mr Lennox, I am quoting Aristotle.”

Henry leant back, every part as impressed as he was vexed. Perhaps the man was not a complete barbarian. No matter. His armoury was by no means exhausted.

“So, Mr Thornton, what do you think? Will you reopen Marlborough Mills? I should perhaps divulge the caveat that should you not be amenable, Miss Hale fully intends on reopening the Mill once she has procured a tenant of suitable background and experience.”

John took a moment, his thoughts returning the notion that Margaret perhaps thought well enough of him and his enterprise to extend such generosity, although he was aware it was in all likelihood not even remotely for _his_ benefit. Still, he allowed himself the momentary luxury of imagining that his position as Master of Marlborough had played some small part, and that she would not have been so eager to assist had it been Slickson, or Hamper’s Mill that had been forced into such a dire position. 

The irony of the whole thing was also not lost on him. His loss of fortune had affected him keenly for one reason and one reason alone: that it meant that he no longer had the legitimate means to offer for her. He could forego the position, the prestige and even the comfort, but the knowledge that Margaret would well and truly never be his would be his undoing. What facetious turn of fate was this, that the reason for his new chance at wealth and success should be the very hand which he wished to claim in marriage! Oh it was too cruel! Cruel, to the point of comedy!

Henry watched silently as the same hint of a smile played about the corner of Thornton’s mouth- but now the sight was no longer unsettling. 

It was insufferable.

“Do you accept our proposal, Mr Thornton?” he said, rather impatiently.

“I do. Most wholeheartedly.” replied Thornton, both brows raised in surprise at Lennox’s sudden temper. “I shall write to Miss Hale immediately.”

“That will not be necessary,” interrupted Henry, indicating where John was to sign on the documents before him. “I will be sure to communicate any message of thanks you might wish to convey. Miss Hale is terribly busy at present.”

“Is she?” asked John looking up, his eyes dreamy as he wallowed in his newfound salvation and suppositions of what angelic tasks might be filling her days. “With what, might I ask?”

Henry stalled, still unused to this northern candour that struck him as impertinence. 

“With… with a great many things. She has taken upon herself the financing of several charitable institutions, as well as made provisions for some of the people she cared for back in Hampshire, and here in Milton.”

“And what else?”

“What else? On a daily basis she is much taken up with her cousin Edith, my brother’s wife, or I should say their child, my young nephew, Sholto. Margaret has quite a way with children.”

Here Henry stopped quite abruptly, unsure as to why he was divulging so much detail of Margaret’s private life. He reasoned that it displayed him to greater advantage to be found so knowledgeable of the young lady’s daily activities, and so closely connected by marriage. He also wanted to disabuse the man of any notion that Margaret might be missing him, as he had admitted so readily to missing her. 

But upon contemplating Thornton’s expression, as he looked up from his paperwork, his quill twisting idly between his long fingers, he saw that his strategy had failed. The knowledge of how Margaret was spending her days had painted the northerner’s face with a warm, nostalgic hue, and he seemed to be lost in whatever pleasant thoughts were hidden behind that hint of a smile. Oh dear, this would not do at all!

“And of course we spend a great deal of time together.” continued he, rising to his feet to take a leisurely turn about the room, “I have always been exceedingly fond of Margaret. She is, as you say, a most unusual girl. Her intelligence and beauty are quite unmatched, but there has always been something very special, very appealing about her moral character and virtuous background. Raised a parson’s daughter, one could expect no less.”

He halted in his stride to look his opponent brazenly in the eye.

“It would be a fortunate man indeed who would succeed in winning such a prize. To be the first to claim the pleasures of her innocence and virtue, he would be the envy of all who knew him.”

“Aye,” replied Thornton, a smile finally splitting his face in two, as he gazed back with the confidence of a man who carries some great, gratifying secret, “that he would. A most fortunate man indeed!”

Henry frowned, looking away and clearing his throat as fiery indignation threatened to break through his calculated, marble exterior. He felt insulted in every fibre, although he could not place the exact location of the insult. Goaded by the man’s smug expression, he pushed aside any sense of honourable loyalty, and decided the only strategy to ensure his own victory would be to indulge in a lie. 

_No, not a lie. An elaboration on the truth,_ he reassured himself silently.

“Since we are agreed, then I might have another piece of good news to share with you, Mr Thornton. As a close friend to the Hale family, I am sure Margaret would not be averse to your knowing.”

With a theatrical flourish he approached the desk, setting a single hand on his hip and challenging his host with every inch of his posture as John continued to initial the pages before him.

“You are to congratulate me. Margaret and I are to be married.”

The sharp crack of the quill as it snapped clean in two under Thornton’s clenched fist startled Henry just enough that he dropped his hand back to his side and teetered back onto his heel. He studied the man warily, debating the wisdom of filling the charged silence that had descended suddenly upon them, and lasted several agonsing minutes at least. 

Then, in an instant, Thornton rose, alarming poor Henry so that he fell back several more steps and almost shoved the chair between them for protection. He circumvented the desk with a look of terrifying determination, and gripped the man’s hand so firmly Henry was certain he had heard, or at any rate felt, several digits crack. 

“Congratulations, Mr Lennox.” 

His voice was low and menacing, and laced with simmering violence. It took everything John had not wrench the man by his soft hands towards himself and send him flying into the wall. He held on longer than was comfortable for either, his eyes boring into his rival, telegraphing every vengeful threat, every sinister warning, every passionate promise that he would willingly tear England apart to find him if he ever so much as inconvenienced a hair on Margaret’s lovely head. 

“Now,” he continued, dropping the man’s damp hand but not withdrawing from his position looming over him, “was that all?”

“Yes…” Henry stammered, “I must be getting on. I must look in at the bank before catching the train back to London.” 

“Then I bid you good day.”

Henry stood rooted to the floor a few moments longer, afraid to move an inch lest Goliath make good on whatever unspoken threat was written across his darkened countenance. It was Thornton who moved first, returning to his position behind the desk and taking up a leaf of the proposal in his hand to study with sudden intensity of interest. His guest swallowed thickly, before snapping shut his small case and heading towards the exit.

It was a large oak door with a simple brass knob for a handle, but years of neglect had caused the panel to sink slightly on its hinges. The result was that, after tugging at the partition with as much strength as he could muster, Henry now found himself momentarily trapped, and quite at a loss as to what he was to do. He stood there awkwardly for longer than was bearable, before clearing his throat and addressing his host reluctantly.

“I say, I seem to be having a spot of trouble with the door.”

Emitting something akin to a growl, Thornton did not even attempt to conceal the eye roll that preceded the two great strides that brought him to Henry’s side.

“It’s really quite stuck, I think we should call for someone. I tugged as hard as I could and…”

_Thud!_ The door lifted off it’s sagging hinges, and hit the wall with considerable impact. 

Henry gazed in petrified awe at the terrifying northerner, who with a single raise of his brows both challenged the Londoner to respond; and dismissed him in the very same instant. He heeded to the latter, leaving with the curtest of nods, and a shaky sense of victory over the whole exchange.

No sooner had John replaced the door on its hinges than he slumped down against it, throwing the pages he held in his hand across the room. He had known this was a possibility, nay, a very likely probability, but now that his worst fears had been confirmed, he could scarcely believe it was so. 

But there was no time to address the erratic beatings of his heart, nor the stinging feeling behind his eyes at the present moment. He could hear the arrival of a new shipment at the mill gate, and the situation in the carding room had yet to be resolved. Even his morose ruminations were interrupted by a sudden and alarming thumping sound that signalled that yet another one of the looms had broken down. John rose wearily to his feet, half-heartedly squaring his shoulders and shaking his head. He had business, (some of it most fortunate!), to attend to, but had not the stomach, nor the mind for any of it just yet.

And there was no tone of celebration, or emotion of regret in the manner in which he went about settling his immediate affairs. To his brother-in-law he sent word that he would be busy in town, reopening the Mill’s accounts and sorting through the unavoidable paperwork. To his mother he said that he would be tasked with finalising his departure from Watson’s mill. Higgins and the men were told to ready themselves for work two days hence, but that they would not likely hear from the Master before then, as he would be arranging the removal of the family from the small, temporary accommodations in Crampton back to the Mill house. But none of his household, or in town, or even from the mills, saw Mr Thornton that day, or the next. He was far too busily engaged, or so he had said.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the kudos, bookmarks and follows, but especially for the reviews. It seems everyone must be on holiday or busy at work, as comments and reviews are few and far between these days, so a very special thanks to all those who took the time to leave a few words expressing how they felt about my little story. It really is most beneficial to the whole exercise, and most encouraging as each chapter does take quite a bit of work.
> 
> I forgot to mention in earlier chapters, that throughout this fic I have adapted or paraphrased some of my favourite lines from the book and miniseries. Obvs all the credit goes to Mrs Gaskell, without whom none of this would ever have happened, as well as whoever adapted her text to screen. They really did come up with some absolute bangers, EG especially!
> 
> We're nearing the end of our emotional roller coaster, with just three chapters to go after this one! Thanks so much for coming along for the ride!


	16. Rage

Before long Henry was back in Harley Street, his appearance as unruffled and his demeanour as impervious as ever. He had, much to Margaret’s thinly-veiled frustration, only confirmed Mr Thornton’s acceptance of her proposal, but had begged to retire early, as the journey had apparently proved more taxing than he had anticipated. Barely a quarter of an hour had passed before he took his leave of his brother’s residence, promising to return the next day to take tea and provide her with a full report. 

He found her waiting for him the next day, pacing about the hallway like some close, caged animal. His heart jerked for a half-moment, as he dared hope her impatience betrayed some tender inclination towards himself, but he was soon disabused of that notion. 

There was nothing peculiar in any of the questions she asked him, and yet as she did so he could not help but notice that her eyes and expression were most vivaciously animated indeed. Henry’s astute senses detected that beneath each perfectly poignant enquiry, there was a tangled myriad of emotion straining against the rigid check Margaret apparently felt it necessary to hold them in. 

Her sensibility in regards to the subject of Mr Thornton and his mill troubled him greatly, but he found he had neither the occasion, nor the inclination to broach the topic outright. Besides, as in all areas of his life that had the potential to cause him discomfort, Henry decided that the best course of action would be to ignore the threat entirely. Unfortunately for him, the rest of the small party at Harley Street were not so disinterested in whatever mission had called him away to the mysterious north, and had left Margaret prowling about the house so uneasily for the best part of the past two days. 

During the course of the conversation, Henry managed to attend to every point concerning his visit that would present the northern city to its meanest advantage. He grew in confidence as his suspicions were confirmed that on most, if not all of these points, Margaret could not (or would not) contradict him. Milton was unappealing, polluted, shrouded in smoke. It’s people were uncouth, frank to the point of rudeness, unintelligible at times. The mills are loud, satanic looking, and generally filthy. There was nothing in his report that was false, and he exulted in the assumption that his tirade was succeeding in the extermination of any tender feeling Margaret might still have for that God-forsaken place. 

“And what of this tradesman? Mr Norton, was it? What sort of a man is he?”

“His name is Mr Thornton, Maxwell,” corrected Margaret, rather too precipitously for Henry’s liking, “and he is a _manufacturer_.”

“Tradesman, manufacturer… same thing really.” said Henry, earning him a pointed look from the lady.

“Mr Thornton is the youngest of Milton’s cotton masters, and his mill was, incidentally, one of the greatest and most successful in the industry. He is also a crown-appointed magistrate,” she added, “and quite a leader in Milton, and the larger Darkshire society.”

Maxwell nodded approvingly, as he was wont to do on most topics. Henry glared at Margaret, his gaze impenitent as she turned her attention to the indolent huff that escaped her cousin.

“Yes yes… but what is he _like_? What does he look like? I’ve never met anyone from the north I think. Are the men so very different from those in London? As different as those we met on the continent?”

Margaret smirked. Henry studied his teacup. 

“Well,” pressed Edith, “Is Mr Thorton’s appearance such a great secret? Am I to receive no answer from either of you?”

“Henry has seen him more recently than I,” said Margaret, “He would be better placed to give an account of his impression. Tell us Henry, how would you describe Mr Thornton?”

Henry shrugged, but there was exasperation in his voice when he replied, 

“What would you have me say? He looked like a tradesman Margaret!”

“What, wiry, and weedy, with a waxed moustache?” giggled Edith.

“No no,” countered Maxwell, “aren’t these cotton masters rather wealthy? He’d be portly, with a wide stomach and several chins. Balding perhaps...”

At this Margaret smiled again, to Henry’s increasing discomfort. 

“Well Henry,” challenged she, “which is it? Would you say Mr Thornton was more weedy and wiry, or portly and balding?”

Henry frowned. He couldn’t very well do the man the disservice of misrepresenting him, not under Margaret’s watchful (and irritatingly protective) eye. He would have to set him down in a different manner.

“He is neither,” he ventured eventually, casting his gaze about in a gesture of practiced nonchalance. “I suppose one could say he was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a large, muscular frame, no doubt from many hours spent doing manual labour, in his youth perhaps. His hair is wolfish and unkempt. His features are terribly straight and stern and dark, and his eyes... well, he seems to scowl at everything he looks at. And his voice...” he continued, confident of the effects his words were having, “is something like a growl, low and feral as it is, and only serves to thicken his northern burr, which is most pronounced.”

At Margaret he arched an eyebrow, misreading her countenance, awaiting her contradiction, but none was forthcoming. 

“Oh, I say!” squeaked Edith, wide-eyed, “You make him sound quite appealing! Dark, dangerous, and alluring! I was imagining a Mr Collins type...”

“Oh no Edith,” said Margaret, never taking her eyes off Henry, “he is much more of a Heathcliff. Tall and dark and brooding, with eyes that seem to penetrate right to the heart of whatever he is looking at.”

“Why Margaret,” commented Maxwell, “you look positively animated! One could almost suspect you harboured some sort of admiration for the man!”

“I do!” replied she, “Greatly admire him that is. He is the truest and best of men. And incidentally,” she added, turning to fix Henry once more, “quite the handsomest I have ever laid eyes on.”

* * *

Several miles north, just a few hours later, the very same depth of feeling was reflected in a lonely Master’s breast, as he ruminated on the simple, business-like missive that dangled from his hand by the dying light of the fire.

_Miss M. Hale_

He had traced a hungry finger over her signature so many times, the inscription had begun to fade. This would likely be the last time he would ever see her name, her _real_ name, in writing. Evermore any dealings on account of Marlborough Mills would be between himself and _Mrs H. Lennox._ Assuming she would be allowed to continue personally managing her affairs, that is.

For the twentieth time at least he lifted the letter to fold the pronounced line of his nose into the page. He fancied he could detect traces of her scent there, at the junction of ink and paper, although in truth it was a fragrance so ingrained in his mind that his imagination could just as readily have fabricated such an impression. She did not smell of fussy perfumes or those unnatural, creamy concoctions Fanny was always sending away for. Her scent was warm, and welcoming, like a sunny spring day or a room full of freshly baked goods. He could not put a name to it. Nor could he forget it. 

He pulled the letter away to peruse its contents once again, hoping that, as if by magic, some new, secret message might have appeared, hidden between its uniform lines. But alas, the words remained unchanged.

A polite enquiry after his health... A discreet allusion to Mr Bell’s inheritance... A brief outline of her proposal to rescue Marlborough Mills from its financial difficulties…

But as his eyes roved over the page, straining in the penumbra, he took comfort in the fantasy that he could feel her there, in every gently curved vowel; in every passionately crossed ‘t’ or stubbornly dotted ‘i’. There she was, in the very fibres of the fortunate paper that she had folded with her own, small hands, and the envelope she had sealed with her own, delicate fingers. 

He was still in two minds about whether or not he should respond directly to her. No doubt Lennox would have relayed his agreement to the scheme, but he still felt it rather ungrateful to not address at least a short word of acknowledgement and thanks to his unlikely, but apparently most thorough saviour.

Then again, her fiancé had forbidden it. Not that John was in the habit of being forbidden anything, let alone by any such glutinous invertebrate as the lawyer he had received just yesterday. Perhaps he could devise some strategy by which Margaret might receive his thanks, but he could also convey that he meant no disrespect to Lennox, however much the cad might deserve just that, and much more. 

With an idea fresh in his mind he folded up his small, paper treasure and, pressing a kiss into its smoothness, tucked it safely into his pocket. He crossed the study to reach his desk, stopping only to turn up one of the lamps that was suspended on the wall. 

There he sat, and in a moment had penned a missive of such economy and precision that even he was surprised at his achievement. Then, pleased with himself, although still desolate over his longing for Margaret, he took to his chambers, to seek refuge from his own loneliness in the welcoming arms of sleep. 

However, as cruel fate would have it, his short letter would be misplaced in the inevitable upheaval of removing from Crampton back to Marlborough Mills. It was only several weeks later that the valet Gisborne came across the small envelope in amongst his master’s things, and took the liberty of expediting it that very morning. 

* * *

It was a quiet, but laden afternoon, the sort where all persons and things are rendered temporarily immobile and impotent; where the atmosphere itself threatens to collapse under its own weight. The uncomfortable heaviness was reflected in her own breast as Margaret approached the small study she had appropriated as her own.

“Henry, about your visit to Milton.”

“Hmm?” he murmured, barely glancing up from his newspaper.

“Henry…”

Henry looked up to see Margaret observing him, an unreadable look upon her countenance, and a mysterious piece of correspondence in her hand.

“Forgive me, I was absorbed in the Crystal Palace. I thought perhaps we might visit the exhibition when it opens. Would you...” 

“Henry, what exactly did you discuss with Mr Thornton?”

Henry frowned, half in thought, half in irritation.

“I have already told you.”

“Of his reaction to the proposal, yes, and of the impression he made on you, but of no other particulars.”

Henry rose to his feet, turning away from her and about the room as was his habit when he sought to circumvent, or at least detract from the subject at hand. Margaret had always found it distracting, but now his evasive meandering seemed bent on vexing her. 

“To which particulars do you refer?” 

“To whatever particular might inspire Mr Thornton to extend to me his very best wishes for my upcoming nuptials!”

Henry paused, his back to her, as his heart set to racing between rage, embarrassment, guilt, and back again.

“Henry!”

He spun on his heel, schooling his features as he summoned an air of nonchalance into all of his looks. 

“Oh, I suppose I might have mentioned something about… that… about the future, your future, with me.”

“Henry! How could you? Why, we are not engaged, you know as well as I that we are not! How could you say such a thing? To Mr Thornton of all people!” 

Ever the cunning strategist, Henry leapt at his chance.

“Why _him of all people_ ? Why should it matter that _he_ know of our arrangement? Would his opinion influence your decision to marry me? Am I to be beholden to him for my future happiness?”

He paused to appraise her with a look of injury.

“I did not take you for one of those women, Margaret, who finds sport in toying with men’s affections, when they lay their hearts in earnest at your feet.”

His scheme worked. Margaret looked abashed. He fought back a smile.

“Unless,” he continued gravely, “unless of course, you never had any intention of accepting me at all. Perhaps you just told me you were considering my proposal, in order to secure my services as your friend and agent? Could that be the case, Margaret? I can scarce believe it of you, but perhaps it is so!”

“No Henry,” she said apologetically, “I, too, was in earnest when I said I would consider marrying you. I will not go back on my word.”

“Well then!” he said, the pain dissolving instantly from his face , “It does not signify whether or not Mr Thornton is aware of our _probable_ marriage. Unless,” he paused solemnly again, “there is some reason why you would be reluctant that _he_ in particular should be appraised of the situation.”

Margaret’s eyes grew wide, fear and shock apparent in all her looks.

“Whatever can you mean?”

“I mean that if you were to harbour some unrequited feelings for the man, I could well understand why you might feel the need to conceal our arrangement from him.”

“There is no question of concealment!”

“But you reproach my having told him.”

“I reproach your having told him something that was untrue...”

“But it might well become true. Indeed, one might argue that it holds to every tenet of truth in essence, if not in actual, provable event.”

“But it…”

“Unless, as I have said, I have offended your particular feelings for the man in removing any possibility that said feelings might ever be returned.”

Bewildered, Margaret collapsed onto the nearest chair.

“No. I mean yes. I mean… no… no feelings, no offence. It does not signify…oh!” 

She heaved a sigh, which Henry took as her concession of defeat on the matter.

“Besides, he must be married by now,” she added wearily, almost as if there were no one else there to hear it.

“Ah yes, I thought as much,” he corroborated, though he had thought no such thing. “He did mention a _Mrs Thornton_.” he added for good measure, taking a seat directly opposite her.

Margaret opened her mouth as if to continue speaking, but no words were forthcoming. Frustrated, she shook her head and tried again, the reason behind her previous vexation suddenly returning to her.

“Henry, the issue at hand is not Mr Thornton, be he married or otherwise, but why you felt it necessary to lie to the man regarding _our_ arrangement!”

“Lie…” he said, framing the word with a vague gesture of his hand, “lie is quite strong for what I…”

“I have not accepted you! I have not given you my promise! I have told you that I need time, patience, to settle my affairs and decide on which direction I am to take my life in. Why, I am barely even out of mourning! Does all this count for nothing in your eyes?!”

“Oh Margaret, do not be so pedantic! You know as well as I, it is only a matter of time.”

He sat up straight and shuffled his chair a little in her direction, his countenance taking on an uncharacteristic animation as he leant in towards her. 

“Ever since our earliest acquaintance I have felt for you the most irrepressible passion and desire. In all of London society I never met another woman like you. Surely you must know, surely you can understand why I am losing patience at this absurd game.”

At this he slipped off his chair and slid onto his knees before her, clasping her hands in desperation. 

“What of the years _I_ have admired you? That _I_ have waited for you? That I have thought of none other than you? Surely they must count for something?”

Margaret could not reply, shocked as she was to be spoken to in such a manner, and by the usually stoic and aloof Henry no less. For a moment she studied his features, which she found neither pleasing, nor absolutely repellent, as she turned over all that had thus far been said in her mind.

“But… but what of _my_ feelings Henry? What of _my_ heart?” she asked.

“I do not love you,” she added quietly.

With a shrug Henry rose to perch beside her on the chaise.

“I have come to see that in arrangements such as marriage, a woman is not always required to love. No indeed, in the happiest marriages, (or so I have been told), a wife’s principal object should be the satisfaction of her husband and the bearing of children. It is my understanding that it is in the fulfilment of her duties towards both, that a woman finds her purpose.”

“Well then your understanding is wrong!” cried Margaret, appalled, “Most assuredly! And I suggest you take care to remedy such assumptions, if you ever hope to marry!”

“I do not _hope_ to marry. I shall marry. I shall marry you!”

“You are too hasty!” she cried again, rising to her feet in an attempt to put as much space between them as possible. “Far, far too hasty!”

“Am I?” he scoffed, “Too hasty, say you? Come Margaret, let us sport no longer! We are forever in each other’s company, and in my heart, and to all that know me, know us, (your Mr Thornton included) you already are _my own_ Margaret. I know every detail of your affairs as if they were my very own. I mean, think of it: how can you ever hope to manage your great fortune without me to guide you? How do you expect to live out your days without as suitable a companion as myself beside you?”

“Is this why?” 

Margaret stopped her pacing, and glared at Henry with an expression he was quite sure he had never seen before.

“Is what why?”

“Is this why you wish to marry me?”

Henry thought for a moment.

“Well yes, Margaret, I love you!”

“Love?!” she scoffed, “Do not speak to me of love! The word is an insult on your lips!”

“An insult?” asked Henry, his face contorting “I am well aware, that on your part at least you do not love me, but I think I deserve to know why my feelings for you are offensive!”

“It offends me that you should speak as if it were your duty to rescue me from a life of spinsterhood and unchaperoned wealth! You think that because I am alone, and was until very recently in reduced circumstances that you could lie to have me for your possession! Although I suppose I should expect no less from a practiced lawyer such as yourself!”

“Of course I want to possess you! Why else would anyone want to marry you, but to have such a prize for their very own?”

“That is not true!” countered Margaret, her voice thickening with tears, “That is not why _he_ wished to m _…_ ” 

She trailed off, reluctant to voice the feelings that were, in truth, naught more than supposition. _He_ had never asked for her hand. Any opinion regarding the true inclination of his heart was just conjecture at this point.

Henry sighed, sensing that the argument had somehow come back around onto itself. 

“Did _Thornton_ ever ask you to marry him?” he asked gently.

“No,” she replied, studying her hands.

“And I have asked you, nay, begged you. Twice. And still you resist me. It is most unfair.”

She motioned to respond, but he cut her off, silencing her with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“I may have lied, for love of you, but I am sure Mr Thornton would have done far worse in my position. These unwashed northerners, that terrible brute of a man. You do not know how men are, Margaret, how they think, what they want. You know nothing of the urges, and advances of men, particularly when there is a handsome woman involved.”

At this Margaret stopped and turned to the window, temporarily transported to something that was beyond Henry and this room. When she came back to him, her expression was arch, and her smile, provocative.

“I do know something of men, Henry. I am not as innocent as you might think.”

Henry’s mouth fell open before he could school it shut. In a moment of unusual passion he rushed to his feet and crossed the room, stopping only inches from her face.

“What… what do you mean?” He said, searching her features in desperation. “I could not stand it.”

“Could you not?” asked Margaret, gratified by his anxious demeanour.

“I could not bear it,” he repeated thickly, in a voice so low Margaret could scarcely credit it as his own, “to think that you have given him some right to yourself. That right which always should have been mine. To know that he has touched what is mine!”

“Yours, Henry? What do you mean ‘yours’?”

He raised his hand to cup Margaret’s cheek. She flinched, but did not move. She barely recognised the cold, calm barrister. The man before her was all aching flesh and simmering blood, and for a moment, Margaret was paralysed.

“This face,” he began, almost to himself, tenderly caressing her cheek, “these lips,” a thumb brushed under their fullness, “this virgin canvas that should be mine to paint the colour of my choosing. I could not bear it. It would be no prize at all if I knew it had been tarnished by one such as him.”

With trembling restraint Margaret took purchase on Henry’s wrist, and lowered it until it was back at his side. Her grasp lingered a few moments, but it was for his own benefit, as his treatment of her person as if she were some object had loosed a most fearsome torrent of passion within her, and she feared she might strike him if her own hand were left at liberty to do so.

“Tell me he hasn’t, Margaret,” breathed Henry, his voice choked with emotion, “tell me you spoke in jest, and that we might continue our courtship. For I am not certain I could bring myself to marry you if you do not.”

“Firstly, Mr Lennox,” she said in a deceptively even tone, “there has been no courtship, just a second offer, and a great deal of presumption and deception on your part. And secondly,” here she drew her hand back to herself, “if that is what it will take for you to put an end to this perverse campaign for whatever it is you want from me, then by all means believe it. I spoke the truth!”

Henry fell back on his heel, as a flash of sickly white ghosted across his gaping face.

“Margaret… no! I cannot believe it!”

“Yes Henry,” she said, her eyes wild as she craned her neck upwards towards him defiantly, “Please believe I am tainted by him! Believe he had put his hands on me! Believe we have embraced! Believe we have joined, by all means, believe whatever you will… but know one thing: I would rather you imagined me a thousand times sullied by John Thornton than touched by yourself even once!”

For a moment Henry stood, fixing her with a look she could not read because, for the most part, she did not care to. She waited for him to respond, such an audacious insult to his person could hardly go unanswered.

But he surprised her once more, taking a single turn about himself, writhing for half a moment before turning to face her once again, his countenance marked with his habitual indifference as he stood on the other side of the cluttered desk from her. There was also, in the taut lines about his lips and the accents of his brow, a cruel, almost mercenary determination that she had not noticed there before.

“Very well,” said he, his voice even and empty, “be that as it may, there are more consequential elements at stake that are not to be neglected.”

When puzzlement was all that was apparent on Margaret’s face, Henry took it as incentive to continue.

“I am willing to extend my forgiveness for your… this indiscretion… whatever wayward misstep that has taken place between you and that northern oaf. But you must promise me that it will never happen again. Truly I will not take kindly to being made a fool of, especially when we are married. No matter how great the fortune you might bring to the match!” 

He concluded his proclamation of benevolence, expressions of injury and self-satisfaction battling for supremacy across his face. As she stood there, wordlessly, scarcely believing his words, the recollection of every significant male relationship in her life washed over her. And with each one, the fearsome maelstrom that was brewing in her breast gained in violent momentum. Each man guilty. Each man forgiven. Each man thoroughly undeserving. 

There was Father with his selfish morality and brittle feelings that needed cosetting and protecting at all times. There was Fred, whose ambition had dragged him far from his family, but not so far as to spare them the agony of his downfall. There was John, who knew not how to love, and who, determined to believe the worst of her, and had not had the courage to claim what he wanted, but had found courage enough to punish her for his own imagined injuries. There was Mr Bell, who had not refrained from considering his own advantage in marriage, before offering his fortune independently. Even _he_ had sought to take whatever he could get.

And now there was Henry. Dear, sweet, dependable Henry! A slimy, venomous rodent sent from the very pit of hell to trap her and great (and unsolicited) fortune for himself. She could not believe it! How could she have been so blind?

He watched for her response with the smug confidence of a man who is certain he will prevail upon his chosen target from the weaker sex.

And within her depth, in the innermost part of her, some small, exhausted thing went _snap_. 

With a menacing rustling of skirts she was before the desk, gathering up the numerous piles of paper into a single great, disordered mass. Before he could inquire as to what she was trying to achieve, he received his answer, as she projected the voluminous heap in his face with tremendous force and vigour. 

“There! That is the closest you shall ever get to myself or my fortune again!”

“Margaret!”

“Enough!” she cried, turning on her heel and rushing out the door into the library. “I will hear no more. Enough of you…” she stopped to collect a leather-bound volume resting on the mantle, “enough of Harley Street…” she slid through the partition into the parlour to take up her shawl that was draped across an armchair, “enough of everything!”

“I say! What’s all this” exclaimed Maxwell, who had been reading a book so gripping that it had sent him quite to sleep upon a small settee.

“Margaret has taken leave of her senses!” growled Henry, marching past him to follow after her as she stomped her way upstairs.

“Not my senses!” she called back to them, “No indeed, my senses are the keenest they have ever been! It is of you, of all of you (but especially him!) that I take my leave!”

Henry watched from the staircase as she collected a few other items that were lying about; a jade hairpin, an embroidered handkerchief, her charcoal pencil case and sketchbook. He followed her as she strode down the hall and turned into the small sitting room that joined her own room.

“What are you doing?! Margaret, calm yourself! You are being perfectly irrational!”

“Yes Henry!” she replied maniacally, “I am! And it feels wonderful!”

To this he knew not what to respond, except to gape as she disappeared into the next room, returning shortly with a small travelling case into which she began to place her growing collection.

“Where are you going?”

She did not reply. In fact, he had to repeat himself several times before she even looked in his direction. 

“Away.”

“Away where? Come now! Margaret! Be reasonable” pleaded Henry. 

“Anywhere that is away from you!” she cried, pointing a vague finger in his direction. 

“From me?!” exclaimed Maxwell, arriving in the doorway just moments after his brother, and looking terribly distraught at what he had just heard.

Margaret looked up, and rolled her eyes.

“No, of course not you Maxwell. I was speaking to your brother.”

“Oh. Right-ho!”

The commotion through the house had roused Mrs Lennox from her afternoon rest. Several servants had gathered at the bottom of the staircase, attracted by the sound of voices raised in anger in the usually peaceful household. Edith approached the small group from the back, and startled the lot of them with her sudden enquiry as to what exactly was going on.

“Oh ma’am, it is Miss Margaret! She’s charging about the house, saying she will run away!”

“Yes, ma’am, and Mr Lennox has gone after her!”

“And Captain Lennox too!”

“I see.” said Edith, as she struggled to piece things together in her mind.

They were interrupted by an unladylike sound, something between a snort, a sneeze and a cough, that could only signify that the matriarch of the house was also in their midst.

“Whatever is going on?” asked Aunt Shaw, her gaze bouncing from the maid to Edith to the butler, and back again, “Where on earth is Margaret?”

“She is above stairs ma’am. She is saying she will run away!”

“Good Lord!”

“with Mr Lennox.”

“Good God!”

“and Maxwell,” added Edith.

“What?!” shrieked her Mother.

With no small amount of puffing and blowing Aunt Shaw hurried (if one might employ the term most loosely here) up the stairs until she reached the landing before Margaret’s small sitting room.

“Now,” she huffed, “what’s all this I hear about running away?”

“Margaret has decided to take her leave of us, Mrs Shaw,” supplied Henry, not taking his eyes off Margaret.

“I see.” said Aunt Shaw, her eyes trailing her niece’s bustling form as she carried on with her work as if there were not near on eight people standing in the narrow doorway watching her. 

“And where, pray tell, are _we_ running away to?” 

“Oh, are you going as well, Mother?” said Maxwell cheerfully, “Jolly good! Edith, shall we go too?”

“Go where, Maxwell?”

“Wherever Margaret and your mother are going. We could make a merry foursome!”

“Oh, but I do not think I am to go…” reasoned Edith, her brow furrowing painfully, “but I thought you might be.”

“You thought I might be what?”

“Running away with Margaret. The maid said you were going to follow her.”

“Oh dear!” whispered the maid, sneaking away from the group with less discretion than she imagined. 

Once she had left, the party turned back to Margaret, who was observing them all with a most curious expression, almost as if she had only just become aware of their presence in the room.

“So… where are we going?” said Maxwell, breaking the silence with his cheeriness, that was soon abashed under the weight of six pairs of eyes that turned to glare at him.

“I should like to know what I am to pack, that is all.” he ventured timidly, his eyes downcast.

“Oh Maxwell, you are not coming with me! Edith, how could you ever think that I would… oh no, never mind, I haven’t the strength!” 

She snapped her small case shut, and moved into her bedroom, leaving the door open which her audience, including Henry, took as an invitation to follow her. Only Maxwell retained some grasp on propriety, and did not cross the doorway into her room. 

Henry soon regretted his decision, for as soon as Margaret saw him there, in her most private sanctuary, any remaining sense of ladylike reserve quite deserted her. Instantly she launched the the nearest projectile she could find in his direction, along with a shrieked command that he remove himself from her vicinity immediately. He retreated with his tail between his legs to stand near his brother, rubbing the reddening tip of his ear where Margaret’s shoe had clipped him sharply. 

The women stood gathered around the bed, upon which Margaret had emptied every piece of furniture in her small quarters. She transferred her things from the coverlet into her luggage with astonishing alacrity, barely stopping to address the bewildered protestations of her Aunt, or the few, feeble entreaties Henry ventured from the doorway. 

Edith, for some unknown reason, was busily engaged folding her cousins more delicate articles, and mindlessly handing them to over to be packed, as if she were preparing for a picnic on the green. Only when the last of her cousin’s sparse wardrobe disappeared into her incongruously large trunk did some semblance of understanding descend upon her.

“Margaret, oh Margaret, you simply cannot leave! Sholto would cry so!”

“Yes, I daresay he might.” said Margaret ruefully as she tugged the lid down on her last piece of luggage. “And then he would fall asleep and remember precious little of the previous day, and even less of the day before that. He is a child, Edith, my departure shall inflict no wound upon his little soul from which he will not readily recover.”

“But you have such a way with him! However would I manage him without you?”

“Edith, dearest Edith,” continued she, covering her cousins’ trembling hands with her own. “You know I love you almost like a sister, but I should tell you, nay, I _must_ tell you: you are quite rich enough to employ a proper nursemaid, and it would not kill you to play with your own son from time to time.”

“Oh, you know I had never thought of that! Maxwell?”

“No, I don’t suppose it would… unless you were playing with bayonets, or near a great precipice, or on the inside of a loaded canon, or on the edge of a...”

“No, darling, the other thing…”

“Ah, yes, of course! A nursemaid! Capital idea! Well done Margaret!”

At this, Margaret rolled her eyes once more, and embraced her cousin and her husband warmly. She crossed the hallway to plant an affectionate kiss onto the sleeping child’s cheeks, before exiting as quietly as she came. 

“Pauline,” she called to the maid, who was paying more attention to a single picture frame than it had ever received before in its existence, “please inform Dixon that we are to change address effective immediately. I shall take rooms elsewhere until I have settled the last of my affairs. Tell her she is most welcome to remain at Harley Street for the present if she prefers. I can always take Daniela with me for now.” 

“Very good Miss.”

The porter was called to see to the luggage, and one last sweep was given of the small apartment that comprised of a bedroom, dressing room, and shared sitting room. Margaret fastened on her outdoor clothes, and embraced her aunt before she could voice any more opposition on the matter.

“Please, understand, I mean not disrespect to yourself or the care you have lavished on me. But I am of age, and I am of means, and I should like to take possession of my own future and dispose of my own time as I see fit. And I cannot do either whilst I am still under your roof.” 

She kissed the large woman fondly on both cheeks, and was surprise to note that the skin was slightly damp.

“I shall visit just as regularly Aunt. And you will be kept abreast of every development. Thank you so very much for all you have done for me.”

With her luggage prepared and her winter wrappings secure, there remained only Henry to whom she had not addressed a word of goodbye, or indeed, any word at all, for the best part of the past half-hour.

At his abashed expression she felt a small, pinprick of pity. It was, after all, the revelation of _his_ atrocious character and intentions that had triggered her sudden catharsis. 

“Mr Lennox,” she offered, coolly extending her hand.

With a glance at their audience scattered about the foyer and on the stairs, he took it and stepped closer, leaning in to whisper forcefully in her ear. 

“Margaret, you must stop this at once! What on earth do you think you are doing? Where can you possibly be going?”

Margaret withdrew her hand, disappointed that he had scorned his final opportunity at civility and decorum. An apology might have been too ambitious an expectation, but she had hoped he might have done the chivalrous thing and wished her well, bowing out of her life with some semblance of his honour intact.

“I am gone!” she cried as she charged out the door with the air of one who is ready to do and dare anything, “I am going away from London! I am going away from England! I am going to the moon if it means I will be the farthest removed from you!”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my wonderful readers, 
> 
> Apologies for the short delay in posting this chapter, the week filled up and life happened, as it is often wont to do. 
> 
> I must say WOW THANK YOU for all the comments and reviews on the last chapter! They were so very appreciated and gratifying and thought-provoking too, as I combed through what some of the readers expect to happen next, and tweaked accordingly as much as I could without compromising the original story. Please, keep them coming, you have no idea what an encouragement it is to read that your work is resonating with people!
> 
> There are only 2 chapters left! Eeek! Although there will be an epilogue or two, and a couple of annexes. Are you guys interested in reading a short about John's Helstone adventures? 
> 
> Also, watch this space, as the next chapter (s) will probably be uploaded during the week, as it is already written and ready to go.
> 
> Anyway, enough from me, wishing you all a wonderful week from grainy, rainy Paris!


	17. Reconciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely ones, I hope you are all well and shiny and thriving as the week draws to its end,
> 
> So I took a little longer than I thought, as the chapter needed a few tiny edits. I haven't received much feedback on whether ya'll are wanting some fluffier content and some annexes (John's Helstone adventures etc.) I do have 2 epilogues planned that will satisfy those hankering after a little more John/Margaret fluffiness, so do let me know so I can know whether or not to dedicate the hours to developing them.
> 
> A 'spéciale dédicace' to Jackiwi86 over on fanfic.net who inspired me to add some climatic ambiance to this chapter when she fanfic'ed my story all those moons ago (I still think you should post what you wrote, 'twas dynamite!) And, as ever, Claudia Lomond for being my constant sounding board. And all of you who read and especially those who take the time to leave a little response. It really means to world to me, it is so reassuring to know I'm not just sending out my labours into the great, silent void.
> 
> We're almost there peeps! Please let me know what you think...

Margaret spent several weeks at the Langham, enjoying, for the first time in her life, what it was to have only herself to care for. She learned to navigate her newfound position as a wealthy, independent heiress, going only where she wished to go, and doing only what she wished to do, and that only when she wished to do it. 

Soon tired of London, she travelled on to Oxford, and set about acquainting herself with the properties and investments she had inherited there. The exercise took her a fortnight complete, and once she had secured a reliable agent, (the same that had assisted Mr Bell when he was living), she decided it was time that she move on once more. 

After much deliberation regarding the next steps into her personal future, she booked passage aboard a steamer bound for Cadiz. Frederick had written to urge her removal from England, to come live with him and his wife and their baby that was expected any day now. Margaret did not need much convincing, writing back the very same day to accept her brother’s invitation. The ship was scheduled to leave early Sunday morning from the Liverpool docks, and so with some business to settle and friends to see, she planned her arrival in Milton two days prior to her departure.

Overall, she was mostly unburdened by the prospect of running into Mr Thornton. He was, as far as she knew, still occupied with the mill, and her business would not take her anywhere near there. Her investment may have secured his immediate future, but she was sure he would have doubled his efforts in order to gain as much security, as was attainable in business, that his fate would never be so uncertain again. And he was, if her calculations were correct, married. For several weeks now. A standard, London engagement lasted six months at least, but she imagined things might be more expedient in the north. No, she would not be meeting Mr Thornton. He was, in all likelihood, a lot more agreeably engaged. 

She met with several of her tenants and overseers, mostly to inform them of the nature of her departure and reassure them that she would continue to administer her affairs from the Continent. She also met with Mr Belmont at the bank to ensure that the funds from the various trusts she had set up with Henry in London were operational and accessible to the beneficiaries. _Business before pleasure_ , she thought to herself, as she made her way down the familiar meandering Princeton roads, stopping frequently to exchange a smile, a warm greeting or a pat on the head with the many children that roamed the streets. She giggled to herself as her three short raps on the large, oak door were met with a cacophony of squeaks and squeals on the other side. 

Their reunion was a happy one. Once Margaret had sorted through the tangle of curly heads and sweaty arms, she took time to speak to each of the children individually, and give them the gifts she had brought for each one of them. A doll, a small sewing kit, a patty pan, some tin soldiers, a spinning top and a reader but wait… where was Tom?

“‘e’s some’ere ‘ere about” conjectured Higgins, “We always find ‘im in th’unlikeliest o’ places, curled up like a cat, ‘is little nose buried in one o’ them books Thornton lends ‘im.”

A smile ghosted across his face as he saw Margaret’s head snap up. He pretended not to notice, busying himself with admiring the fine bone china tea set she had brought as a present for Mary. It belonged to the late Mrs Hale, and was every bit as beautiful and delicate as the sweet lady herself had been. Checking herself, Margaret went back to bouncing the youngest Boucher on her knee whilst marvelling with rounded eyes at the tiny, tin battalion she was rapidly being flanked with to her left. 

“Mr Thornton lends Tom his books?” She asked after a moment, avoiding Higgins’ knowing gaze.

“Aye,” he confirmed, turning a chair to seat himself backwards on it, folding his arms over the backrest. “‘E’s taken ‘n interest in young Tom. Says ‘e sees th’ makin’s of a scholar ’in ‘im. ‘though I’m sure Mrs Thornton dun’t approve of such a notion.” he added cheekily.

_So that’s that_ . Margaret thought _He has married Miss Latimer._

“She dunt approve o’ much, Da’,” added Mary, “She’s ever so surly, ‘ardly ever smiles at anythin’, not even at ‘im!”

“Our Mary ‘elped th’Thorntons wit’ th’ move from th’millhouse t’Crampton, n’ back again,” explained Higgins, casting a proud look at his younger daughter. 

“Oh.” replied Margaret. She was afraid to say any more, lest her voice waver and betray the depth of feeling she had, these long months kept hidden safely away. 

“I hope they’ll be very happy together.” 

Father and daughter exchanged a puzzled look. 

“Aye Miss, ‘m sure the’ will be, as ever the’ ‘ave been,” he responded, still bemused.

Margaret did not dare look at him. The tears threatened to sting their way through the wall she had meticulously erected against them. It would not do! Besides, she had come to Milton to settle her affairs, visit her friends and say her goodbyes; not to spend the afternoon speaking of the newly-married Thorntons, of all people. 

And so she asked after this person and that; learned of Mary’s progress as a cook and housekeeper, laughed at the children’s stories and gave in to their many solicitations. She savoured every moment of their precious company, and they in turn delighted in her affectionate attention. Before long, Higgins suggested that she stay for one last cup of tea, to toast their farewell, or something of that nature. She had just set out the new teacups when there was a knock on the doorframe.

“‘Iggins, I believe this belongs to you.” 

Margaret stopped stock still. The tea she was pouring with her back to the door began to overflow and run down the sides of the teacup. “Miss Margaret!” exclaimed Lucy, as she watched the tawny liquid spill over the saucer’s edge and seep into the exposed wood of the table. 

“Oh! Good heavens!” She exclaimed, suddenly in possession of her senses once again. She hurried to the stove to fetch a rag to mop up her mistake, her mind racing to contrive a reason to cut her visit with her friends as short as possible. She was not sure she was prepared for an impromptu meeting with Mr Thornton. 

“Miss… Miss Hale?!” rumbled the voice incredulously.

Margaret gathered her courage and lifted her head defiantly. She couldn’t very well pretend to be somebody else. As it was, young Lucy had given her away. She inhaled sharply and turned to face the unmistakable northern burr. 

“Mr Thornton.” She inclined slowly, taking in the full height of him with the upwards sweep of her head. He looked about ten feet tall.

They stood in silence for a moment, studying each other, eyes wide and unbelieving. It wasn’t until poor Tom began to squirm under Mr Thornton’s hand that he realised that he had been gripping the poor boy’s shoulder rather firmly.

“Sorry lad,” he proffered, tearing his eyes away from Margaret just long enough to look down apologetically at the six-year old leaning against him with familiar affection. 

Higgins, who had been watching their silent exchange with mischievous interest, was the next to break the spell. “Measter!” he exclaimed, greeting the taller man warmly, “Come in, come in. We were jus’ ‘bout t’ toast Miss Margaret’s departure.”

“Departure?” he asked, stepping into the room without taking his eyes from her. “Where are you going?”

Margaret opened her mouth, but found that her words would not come. They had fled, hidden themselves somewhere amongst the erratic beatings of her heart, or in the throbbing heat that was pooling in her belly. _Damn them!_

“Spain, was it Margaret?” Higgins, coming to her rescue once again.

Margaret swallowed thickly. She could hardly stand and gape at the man all evening. She shook her head. She was of age. She was of means. She had, in fact, provided the means for his mill, his position and most likely, his marriage, if not his wedding. Mr Latimer had probably paid for that. There was no reason for _her_ discomfort. It was he who was indebted to her, not the reverse.

“Yes, Nicholas,” she replied, beaming warmly at her friend. “But not before we have that cup of tea I was promised!” She ventured a brave smile at the newcomer. “Won’t you join us, Mr Thornton?”

For nothing in the world would John Thornton have declined that invitation.

Margaret was pleased to note the friendly manner in which Master and worker interacted. There was no uneasiness between them, she thought. Higgins and his roustabouts seemed to tickle Thornton’s elusive sense of humour, and she was sure she had never seen him laugh so heartily before. It was a beautiful sight. His usually stern brow smoothed and his eyebrows raised; the skin about his eyes crinkled deliciously at the corners. The firm line of his mouth stretched wide across his face into the brightest and most disarming smile, and the deep, thundering rumble of his laughter made her heart and every warm part of her swell with tender affection. She found herself gazing at him, allowing herself the small luxury of studying his features, so as to preserve a sketch of his likeness forever as a memory in her heart and mind.

They addressed each other directly only once. Mr Thornton enquired after her relations in London, correcting himself awkwardly when he spoke.

“Miss Hale… forgive me, perhaps… I believe... you mustt be Mrs Lennox by now...” 

She took her time in answering. “No, Mr Thornton,” she demurred, relishing the small thrill it gave her to correct him on this score, “I am still Miss Hale. And will be for at least the foreseeable future.” 

His expression was transformed at this revelation, his face melting into the widest and most boyish of grins as he gazed at her for far longer than was comfortable. It was only when a painful squeak escaped the toddler upon his knee that he came back to the world.

“Ow, Mr Forton, ye’ howdin’ me too tight!”

“Oh, I’m sorry pet!” he said, smoothing the girls red hair apologetically. 

“‘E did it t’ me too n’ all!” hissed Tom to his sister, casting a wary glare at both guests. “I dunno wha’ ‘e’s about today!”

Margaret could hardly stifle her laughter, and the sight of her mirth at his own expense turned the Master bright red. He wrapped his arms further around little Lucy and shrunk down in his chair, hiding from his embarrassment. 

Higgins picked up the conversation where they had left it, and Mr Thornton did not trust himself to address her again. But although Margaret couldn’t be certain, his furtive glances and the inclination of his body seemed to angle a little more in her direction, and there was a distinct brightness in his eyes whenever he looked her way. They spoke of many things amongst the three of them, and Margaret was less reserved than she had been so far, allowing herself to thoroughly enjoy the company of both these men who were, in truth, so very dear to her. 

“Miss Margaret, it’s almost dark! Ye’ll miss yer coach!” urged Mary, rousing her from her thoughts. 

“Oh, so it is Mary! Nicholas, children, I am afraid the time has come for me to say farewell…” 

She embraced them and said her goodbyes, taking care to wipe a stray tear that tracked its way down Mary’s rosy cheek. 

“I shall write to you.”

“I should be going too,” said Mr Thornton, lifting reluctant little Lucy off his knee with a quick peck on her ginger head. “Miss Hale, might I be permitted to accompany you? It is quite dark…”

Higgins and his daughter exchanged a knowing look. 

“Thank you, yes, Mr Thornton.” Margaret replied. She was not sure she was permitted, or even inclined to refuse. Besides, he was a married man, and she was leaving in the morning… What was the worst that could happen? 

They bade the large family goodnight and headed out of the door, maintaining a conscious but unspoken distance between them. They exchanged a few polite observations about their surroundings, and soon the winding alleys gave way to the wider, cobbled roads of Milton central. They had done well so far, and she was almost back at her hotel. Margaret allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief...

“Miss Hale,” ventured the Darkshire rumble at her side, “If I might be so bold, there is something I must say to you.”

Margaret froze in her tracks. They had just stepped onto the high street, on the more affluent end, and her hotel was already visible at the end of the road. To make matters worse, it had begun to drizzle.

_Oh dear!_ she thought to herself. _And we were doing so well!_

He knew she was leaving for Liverpool in less than an hour, so she conjectured that it could not be anything too injurious. _Besides,_ she reminded herself, _he is a married man now_. The thought left her feeling very cold and very small.

But she held her head high and schooled her features into their usual, regal demeanour. 

“I am listening, Mr Thornton.”

He couldn’t help but smile at her little display. He too had felt how easy it would be for them to slip out of the comfort of polite conversation and into the awkwardness of a more engaging address. He had no wish to cause Miss Hale anymore injury than he already had throughout their acquaintance so far. But there were things he wished, nay, he _must_ be allowed to say.

“I am afraid I have been quite ungrateful to you Miss Hale,” he began.

“I’m sure you have nothing to be grateful for.” She retorted, curtly.

“I think that I do…” he said. The words were ready and waiting on his tongue. 

“I should have thanked you personally for your intervention in the Mill,” he raised a hand to silence the imminent protest that flashed across her face, “were it not for your benevolence as regards to my tenancy, as well as your generous investment in the business itself, I would never have been able to reopen Marlborough Mills, or recover any semblance of its activity.”

“Mr Thornton there is no need…” 

“Aye, Miss Hale there is. I may never see you again, and it is capital to me that you understand how grateful… how very indebted I know myself to be…” he ducked his head to meet her gaze, “and to whom.”

“Mr Thornton,” she breathed, her attempt to dismiss his gratitude dying on her lips as she looked up at him. His eyes bore into her with an intensity that threatened to cleave right to that deepest, darkest secret she had kept hidden in her heart these long months. A ferocious wave of emotion swept over her, as expressions of gratitude, desire and longing chased each other across his features. She couldn’t stand it! She had to break this spell. _Something… say something!_

“You are most welcome, Mr Thornton.” she stammered, looking away. “I am glad to have been in a position to help such an important, admirable enterprise. Your workers… your mother… your wi…” she stopped, the word stubbornly refusing her summons, “they are all dependent on you and everything you have worked so hard for. I could hardly stand by and watch all your achievements come to naught, and through no fault of your own” 

“I am heartened, Miss Hale, to learn of your good opinion of me.”

“And you will always have it, Sir.”

He bent his head to capture her eyes that were once again studying the cobblestones with great interest. She allowed herself to look up for a moment, before turning away. She was not sure she could stand to look into those endless skies for a second longer. It was too much! He was a married man. They were in the street. They must keep moving. She must change the subject.

“And how is Mrs Thornton taking to the Mill House?” she ventured, once they had taken a few more steps.

“My mother is happy to be back home,” Mr Thornton replied after a moment’s pause. “We were only a few weeks in the smaller house in Crampton...”

“Oh,” Margaret said, eyes still trained on the pavement in front of her, “I meant the other Mrs Thornton…”

Thornton squinted in confusion, before turning to scrutinize her careful avoidance of his face. She did not know! 

“I was surprised to learn of the bank’s sudden decision to recall the loan, particularly given the difficulties following the strike. And so soon after the wedding, I assume.” she added hurriedly to fill the silence, “I was not aware of the exact date of the happy event.” She turned and offered a weak smile. He was cut to the heart. 

“Miss Hale…” he said, slowing down. She continued at the same pace, so he repeated himself, more forcefully. “Miss Hale.”

She stopped and turned back to face him. There was barely three feet between them, and yet she felt as if she were staring at him from across a great caverness abyss. 

“Miss Hale,” he continued, now sure of her attention. “There is no other Mrs Thornton. There has been no marriage.” Encouraged by the slight gape of her pert mouth, he added, “Miss Latimer and myself have ended our… er… acquaintance.” 

“Oh Mr Thornton!” she cried, instinct propelling her to rush to his side and comfort him. But she stopped herself, reaching out to him with her eyes instead, “I am sorry for you! You seemed so… so well suited.”

Warmed by her spontaneous display, he thanked her for her concern. Her brow furrowed and she looked down, her eyes flickering from right to left as if calculating some great number.

“But Mr Thornton, forgive my impertinence, I do hope that _I_ played no part in your unfortunate situation,” she said, worry creasing her forehead as she looked up into his face earnestly. “Your kindness at my father’s passing, and my financial interventions, I mean. I confess I know little of their repercussions… I merely wished to ensure the mill would not close down, and that you would not be ruined. You have worked so hard for all you have, I could not bear the thought… but I never intended…” She searched his face, looking for the answer to her question. Or perhaps the end of it.

He took the hand reaching out hesitantly for him. “You had no hand in it,” he lied, “Miss Latimer and I were ill-suited. My affections, that is to say, I was, at the time…” 

He cursed his recalcitrant tongue. From the moment he had seen her from the doorway, bright, beautiful, and spilling tea all over Higgins’ kitchen table, had known exactly what he wanted to say, and exactly how he would say it. There was nothing to fear now that there was truly nothing to lose. But then where, in heaven’s name, were his words?

Suddenly aware that he had been holding her hand in silence for more than several moments, he cleared his throat, and lowered his grasp until they separated. Nevermind. _Damn his words,_ wherever they had fled! He would approach the matter from another angle.

“So you are leaving, then.” He said, taking his turn to address the cobblestones underfoot. 

“Yes.”

“Spain, was it? Your brother will be anxious to see you again.”

Her head snapped up to meet his gaze. There was kindness in his voice. “You know about Frederick?!”

His heart swelled as he sensed the opportunity to set things right upon him. He would not risk another misunderstanding. He would not risk her feelings again.

“Your father informed me. Just before his departure for Oxford. I was ignorant of his existence until then which is why…” his expression tightened under the weight of his admission, “Miss Hale, I was very wrong to abuse you as I did. I jumped to a hasty conclusion when I saw you embracing your brother at Outwood station. It suited my feelings and my injured pride to believe the worst of you. I am afraid I accused and hurt you most cruelly.” 

_Aha, there they were!_

“Mr Thornton,” she interrupted, shaking her head.

“No, Miss Hale, please allow me this. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. You once accused me of ungentlemanly behaviour. You were right in your assessment of me, as it would seem I have shown little but cruelty and callousness to you since that day…” his voice trailed off.

“But Mr Thornton...” she drew closer to lay a gentle hand on his gesticulating arm.

“I beg you, Miss Hale, to allow me to ask for your forgiveness. I know I am not worthy of the good opinion you so kindly bestow on me but please, _please_ accept my apology for _all_ of my indiscretions in regards to yourself. I assumed the wantonness of which you spoke when we danced was your way of warning me that you kept a lover. I could not have been more mistaken.” 

“Yes,” she said meekly, withdrawing her hand and turning her flushed face away from him, “I was referring to a different incident entirely.” 

“Yes Miss Hale, I know that now.” He ventured apologetically. She waited as his eyes traveled across the ground. He needed to explain the incident to which he was referring, without offending to her sensibilities or indeed, his own. 

But there were no two ways about it. The truth must out, and out as clearly and expediently as possible. He gathered his courage in his hands and opened his mouth to speak...

“Oh Mr Thornton! It is I that am sorry! I may not have kept a lover, but I am surely wanton; for what sort of a lady would allow herself to be so thoroughly kissed in that intimate way? I was every bit deserving of your censure!”

She covered her face in her hands and shook her head, as if to shake the very memory from her mind. The light drizzle that had left them thus far unmolested, turned heavier in an instant. Margaret barely noticed as he gripped her elbow lightly and guided her up some stairs and onto a small terrace that overlooked the hotel courtyard. When she uncovered her face, they were seated on a bench, her small trembling hands held and soothed by his larger, warm ones, as the rain pelted down all around them. 

“Miss Hale, I have only recently learned of my behaviour that day. You must believe me when I say I knew nothing of our, er, encounter.”

Her eyes widened. She cocked her head to the left slightly in disbelief.

“Dr. Donaldson did warn me that my memory of that day’s events might be incomplete, or even erroneous. I only knew of our… my… our embrace on the eve of your departure from Milton. I would have come to you sooner, but I was detained, and the revelation lead me to break with Miss Latimer, lose my financing and consequently the Mill, and any hope I had of reconciliation with you.”

She withdrew her hands from his and her face turned pale. She was about to speak when Thornton cut her off, reading her thoughts, and twisting his body so he was fully facing her.

“No Miss Hale, do not chastise yourself, it was not your doing. I did not love Miss Latimer. I confess her attention was a balm for my wounded pride after your rejection that night in Crampton. She was pleasant company enough…” he paused, lowering his voice to an intimate murmur, “but it was not she that my heart called mistress.”

But she didn’t seem to be listening. Much good his declarations would do anyone, if she wouldn’t even hear them! He considered repeating himself, but then thought the better of it. 

“Your rejection was justified, considering the circumstances.”

“But without those circumstances…” she began, hesitantly, her brow furrowing as she worked through the memories and new revelations in her mind. “Mr Thornton… please know, I do regret my rejection of you so very deeply.” She was talking to her lap, still trying to piece together the picture of their present situation. It eluded her. 

He was not sure he had heard her correctly.

“You would have welcomed my suit?” He asked, looking at her expectantly. His hands had come to rest tensely on his knees and his body was bent towards her smaller frame. 

“I would,” she ventured, her eyes still lost in thought, “I would… but so much has passed between us,” She met his gaze then, weariness, longing and sadness etched on her face. She sighed, “and I have nothing left for me in England.”

Thornton’s heart sank at her conclusion. Truly, he had no claim to her. He had abused and accused her most cruelly without grounds, and had been the instigator of almost all of her hurt in this area. A head injury was no excuse. Of course she must go to Spain, to be loved and cherished by her brother who would have her best interests at heart. Thornton’s thoughts strayed briefly to Fanny who, despite her flighty nature and aggravating manners, would always be his own beloved little sister. 

But she could not leave without knowing his true feelings. He had never had the opportunity to confess his love to her. She might leave, she might away, to be swallowed by the Spanish horizon never to be seen again, but not before she knew the ardent passion with which he loved her. 

“Miss Hale,” he began, “Margaret…”

He willed his eyes to remain fixed on her own. They were at present as a murky sea green- dense and unreadable; a reflection of the smudged curtain of precipitation that surrounded them. He could not glean anything from them, and her expression gave nothing away. Would she prove insensible to the very bearing of his soul? Nevermind. She would hear nonetheless. 

“Pardon me Miss...”

The gruff, Darkshire burr cut through the invisible intimacy that had woven its way around the young couple. It was several seconds before they broke from each other’s gaze, he first, to turn their attention to the aging footman who was hovering at a respectable distance from them.

“Yes? What is it man?” snapped Thornton.

“‘Tis th’ coach, Sir. As per Miss Hale’s instructions this mornin’, ‘er luggage’s bin’ loaded ‘n th’ driver’s bin’ kept waitin’ five minutes already…”

“Oh!” exclaimed Margaret, rushing to her feet. “Oh, I must go! Mr Thornton I… excuse me, please tell the driver I will be there directly…”

As the man ambled away, she turned once more to face her companion, her heart wrenching to see the anxiety in her breast reflected upon every inch of his countenance. Truly, he was a picture of desperation, as he leaned towards her, his hands flexing as if they itched to take purchase on some part of her and never let go, his eyes telegraphing the supplications he had not the time to voice. 

_Let her go, man, let her go!_

“Ma… Miss Hale,” he began thickly, unable to resist raising a trembling hand to brush her cheek, “Please accept my sincerest wishes for your good health and happiness in Spain. It is only right that you go to your brother. He will take care of you, if, as you say, you have nothing left in England. I wish you well.” 

She stared at him, unblinking. His hand remained, caressing her cheek until an uncomfortable amount of time bid him lower it. For a moment she seemed lost to him again, as she had been after her father’s passing. Lost in grief. Lost in thought. Lost in the bitter memories of all that had transpired between them.

Thornton turned to face the courtyard, interpreting her silence as her final word on the matter. He would not allow his pride or wounded feelings to colour his behaviour again. She had every right to reject him, humiliate him even, after his treatment of her. Every right to dispose of her newfound wealth as she saw fit. Every right to board passage to Spain and her new life away from the smoke and dust of Milton. He would bear up under the devastation of it, as the gentleman he had always aspired to be. He turned from her, and walked several feet away to hide the tears that threatened to betray his cleaving heart. 

“Miss Hale!”

“I am coming!” she gasped, her gaze volleying between the two potential futures she did not think she would have to choose this day. When he would not look at her, she dashed her palm across her wet cheek, and hurried down the stairs to board the coach that was threatening to depart without her. 

As she stepped up into the carriage, she cast a glance back through the pelting rain to the balcony above. She could just make out a dark figure standing immobile where she had left him, still facing away from her. 

“Look back.” she commanded quietly, “Look back at me.”

But he could not.

  
  



	18. Resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! At long last! I'll not keep you... please see end of chapter for notes.

John Thornton could not rest. 

He had arrived home in the small hours, long after Miss Hale’s coach had quit the hotel courtyard under the cover of one of Milton’s more formidable downpours. Like the gutless, lily-livered wretch he was, he could not bring himself to watch as she was torn away from him once again. And he had cursed his cowardice ever since.

That she should remain even a minute on the same soil as he was a fact he should have had the stomach to take advantage of. 

How long he had wandered he knew not, but as he sat on the steps of the small Crampton house, still empty since his beloved had vacated its premises months ago, he was grateful for the night that enveloped him, as his eyes mimicked the deluge that poured mercilessly all around, swallowing the agony he keened out into its obliging darkness.

The singular thought of his mother was what had finally driven him home. Seeing his bedraggled state, she thought the better of asking where he had been and what he had been doing. She did not even attempt to scold, but simply sent him to bed with a hot cup of cocoa to ward off any sickness that might have the temerity to settle in his weary bones. 

But as he stood in his chamber, dripping rainwater onto the immaculate wooden floors, surveying the suffocating emptiness of his quarters, he knew sleep would not be his portion this night. 

The situation was hopeless, truly hopeless, as it had never been before. In a matter of hours she would be aboard a ship taking her away from him forever. He could not follow her, and insult her great generosity in providing the means for resurrecting his enterprise. He could not ask for her, or confess the entirety of his feelings. How could he ask her to choose between one who had authored so much of her pain and tarnished so much of her reputation; and the loving security of her brother’s companionship? Even he was not so cruel! No, he had been quite right on that score.

But something inside him was stirring. Like a wild animal mournfully caught in a trap, it writhed and rebelled as it fought to get its way. Indeed as he fumbled about, trying to find solace in imitating some version of his habitual evening routine, he found himself distracted by its feral moans that protested, louder and louder until all he could do was stand, frozen immobile, and pay heed as it roared from deep within. 

_ Go to her, you fool! _

“To what end?!” he gasped, beginning to think he had truly run mad. “To what end? She is gone, all is lost…”

_ She is not yet gone! All is not lost! _

“What am I to do?! What would you have me do?!”

_ Go to her this instant! Ready the horses, fly the colours, raise the standard! Tear England apart if you must, but do not rest until you have seen her! _

“I will go!” he exclaimed, “I will go to her!”

Lunging at his wardrobe, he threw on a pair of breeches and a cotton shirt, not bothering to tuck it in or secure it with a waistcoat. He charged out the door, and vaulted down the first staircase, swinging his weight about the angle of the banister and leaping clear over the last flight of the second. He fumbled about in one cupboard, and then another, spouting expletives of increasing colour and profanity as the object of his search continued to elude him. 

“Master Thornton, Sir. Was the’ somethin’ ye’ was wantin’?”

Thornton turned to find that his valet Gisborne had materialised from the shadows. He was still fully dressed, or perhaps  _ already _ full dressed. John had no idea which was more likely.

“Me’ riding boots. Where are the’?” he asked.

“Here sir. Will ye’ be wantin’ yer ‘at n coat and er… a waistcoat per’aps?”

“No time. I’ve not a moment t’ lose! Wake Standring, and tell him to prepare Thorin.”

The servant took half a moment to acquiesce.

“Quick man!”

John stumbled gracelessly as he attempted to fasten his boots whilst jogging down the outside stairs simultaneously. The rain had abated, and the air was brisk and humid, although to John it felt as sweltering as a hothouse. 

He was met at the stable door by Standring, the shy, Yorkshire lad who tended the horses, who nodded groggily before handing the Master his crop. John finished securing his boots, and the boy disappeared into the dark shed, returning shortly with a handsome black stallion in tow. The beast was pleased to be taken out of its pen so at such an unusual hour, and whinnied affectionately when he caught his Master’s scent. John smiled, and fondled the animal’s long nose by way of greeting. 

“Easy boy, easy… I know, it has been far too long. Can you ever forgive me? ”

Once he felt he had obtained the horse’s pardon, John hoisted himself up onto its broad back in one swift motion. With the habits he had been taught since his earliest infancy, so ingrained they were now more instinct than anything, he held himself upright, bearing down on his heels and relishing, as always, the feel of being in command of such a formidable creature. 

The horse was a truly beautiful specimen, and was the only indulgence he had allowed himself during his long years of amassing fortune. He had been little more than a colt when John had purchased him, but the Scandinavian horsemen that had brought him to England had already detected his potential, dubbing him Thorin, Norse God of Thunder, for his great speed and boundless energy.

A sharp dig of John’s heels and a barked command was all it took to set the horse’s hooves to thundering. Standring opened the mill gate, and leapt out of the way as Master and beast stormed out of the courtyard and onto the street, their powerful silhouette dissolving into the blackened night. 

The city’s cobbled roads soon gave way to the flattened, dirt highway that connected Milton to its surrounding hubs of industry. John had travelled this road a hundred times, but never on horseback, and never at such an ungodly hour. He had no thought for himself, for his own fatigue or safety as he rode hard into the night. He thought only of Margaret, and the fading darkness that threatened to steal her away with it, as it conceded its place to the treacherous new day. Blind to the discomfort and folly of his endeavour, he rose up high on his legs, and drove his horse relentlessly onwards, determined to win this race against the breaking dawn. 

After hours that felt like minutes, John clattered into the outskirts of the great port city of Liverpool. It was raining, and the streets were beginning to awaken, so John was able to ask for directions to the harbour, rather than fend for himself on the unfamiliar roads. More than one shopkeeper and delivery boy was arrested in their morning’s preparations by the sight of so dishevelled a man and so magnificent a horse thundering their way through the city before the day had even begun.

Soon he could just about make out some jagged slices of the great Mersey river through the clustered buildings that stood high and proud all around him. The narrow roads grew wider and the cobbles underfoot flattened into worn, granite rock with trails of sandy sediment running through it. He came upon the harbour’s broadway, where he hastily dismounted, tossing a coin and the reins to a young lad who was admiring the great horse most eagerly. The boy grinned at his unexpected good fortune, and turned to lead his handsome charge to a nearby fresh water trough, and procure for him a brimming nosebag. 

The harbour was crowded, seemingly from well before the day had begun to even contemplate breaking. Even John’s great height provided him little advantage in locating some person or some thing that might indicate where the ships bound for the Mediterranean were docked. With intransigent determination he pushed through the crush of people as they swarmed this way and that, each going about their own pressing business, and not attending to anything much outside of themselves. He had to ball his hands up into fists to keep from throwing a few of the slower pedestrians out of his path. He was sure none of their affairs could be more pressing than his.

Suddenly, an exchange of alveolar exclamations off to his left arrested his ears. His years of visits to the continent had created a loose association between the thick, fricative dialect and the southern spanish trading houses and their tradesmen. Wildly he turned, his senses battling furiously to filter out the bedlam and focus on the snippet of Andalusian that was fast fading out of range.

Three flat  _ gaucho _ hats were making their way back towards the city, their wearers neatly concealed underneath their wide, spanish brims. As John scanned the crowd several more of their countrymen became apparent, and all moving in the same direction. He cast his gaze as far as it would reach, to the furthest of  _ gaucho _ or  _ bombín _ hat he could see. His eyes landed on the great, navy and white steamer that was docked several piers away. 

“Excuse me, si...er… señor, er… Cádiz?” he asked one of the gentlemen as he passed by. 

“¿Cádiz? ¡ _ Ese por allá, sí _ !  _ Bilbao, Lisboa y Cádiz. _ ” replied the man, pointing in the affirmative at the ship in question. “El  _ SS Oleron _ .”

The smallest spark of hope propelled John’s weary legs to push forward, against the bustling crowd as it pressed its way back towards the city. The distance could not have been more than a couple of hundred metres, but it took every ounce of his strength to stay the short course, like a salmon instinctively battling gravity to make its way upstream. After several minutes the crowd began to thin, and John was once more at liberty to cross the distance with his habitually lengthy strides. He had scarcely broached his second when he heard the horn blow.

_ No! _

The gangway was shut, the chimneys already smoking. The anchor was raised and every tether had been loosened. Even the few gatherers that had come to wave their loved ones goodbye were already turning on their heels and making their way back to wherever they had come from. 

He was late. He was too late. It had all been for nothing.

Helplessly, hopelessly, he watched the massive wooden hull pull away, tearing his heart out with it as it drew out to the river’s mouth, then further out to sea. Silently, he threw up a prayer to whoever might be listening for her to appear to him, even for one last time. Just a glimpse; just one final look, and then what, he knew not. He knew only that the entirety of his life’s existence had somehow converged towards this very moment.

He stood immobile on the dock, the thin crowd dispersing and dissolving all around him, absorbed into the city or scattering to other ships and businesses along the harbour. But he did not see any of it. The weight of a century’s loneliness crushed down upon him, branding him with the mark of his condemnation to forever walk the earth alone and without her. The heart of his heart. The other part of his soul. 

For her part, Margaret’s own heart would not stop thundering in her chest. The constant splashing of the waves, and the buzzing of passengers and seamen all about her was making her stomach turn. She gazed out towards the river’s mouth, and beyond to the endless horizon of possibility that beckoned to her, and suddenly she felt very small. No amount of fortune, no amount of fortitude, could prepare a person for such circumstances. To be trapped, like a ship on the high seas that is volleyed between this wind and that. To be caught between the unlikely promise of the past, and the comforting certainty of the future. Oh, but it was too late to think of that now! She just hoped Frederick would not be too put out when her trunk arrived in Cádiz without her.

Indeed as Margaret stood on the dock and watched the wooden bulk of the  _ SS Oleron _ pull out from right under her nose, the sheer thoughtlessness of her actions struck her suddenly. The porter had sent for her, called her name several times, and she had sat there, unable to move from the small covered bench that sat to one side of the pier. She had wished, hoped, pleaded with heaven above that her presence might go unnoticed, and it appeared her prayers had been answered when they lifted the gangway and shut down the hatch, and sounded the bell that signalled the ships’ departure without her. 

What a ridiculous notion, to stay behind on a whim! What had she left in England, except family she did not want to see and the fluctuating attentions of a man who had never actually asked for her? How was it that the single thought of leaving him was enough to make her consider, nay,  _ endeavour _ , to remain on English ground?

Although her mind was active at the task of reasoning and rationalising the sense (or lack thereof) behind her reckless actions, her heart showed no such inclination. Indeed it seemed the most natural thing in the world that she should act in such a way, and continue to love Mr Thornton. Over any other man. Across any distance. For every measure of time.  _ Of course _ she would remain for love of him.

She loved him, yes, fiercely she loved him, and had forgiven him all his foolishness. But he had not confessed his love, nor offered her any alternative to the one she had so readily decided upon. So why had she not seen it through?

As she sifted through the barrage of memories in her mind, Margaret smirked at the thought that even Aristophanes himself could not have imagined a more faithful example of his theories. Never had two souls longed for each other so irrationally, or gone about things so foolishly, as herself and John Thornton. And never would either know what it was to be whole, as long as the other walked the earth in any way apart from them. 

_ Heathcliff once again! _ she thought to herself,  _ For whatever souls are made of, his and mine are surely the same! _

But one single soul or two, John had not made her an offer. And despite her revolutionary behaviour of late, Margaret did not yet feel so emancipated as to consider arriving in Milton unannounced and declaring her own feelings to the man on the matter. She was a lady, and as such was only at liberty to wait for her future to come to her, inasmuch as a desirable marriage was concerned. 

She shook her head as the reality of her immediate predicament began to sink in. She frantically worked through the contents of her luggage in her head, heaving a sigh of relief to remember she had kept her most important documents in her personal travel case. At least she would not be completely penniless in a strange city. 

She looked away to take up her small carpet bag and fasten her coat more securely around her person before making her way back towards town. The rain had left quite a chill in the air, which was only exacerbated by the salty breeze that seemed intent on blowing her trusty brown hat away with it. 

As the opposite pier was gradually revealed to her, previously hidden as it was by the great ship and scattering crowd, Margaret was arrested in her tracks by a most unusual sight. Standing there, looking out onto the water, was a single man. He cut an incredibly forlorn figure, and Margaret first assumed he might be a drunkard, disheveled inadequately dressed as he was in just his trousers and shirtsleeves. Her first instinct was to slip past unnoticed, but just as she was about to, a heart-wrenching groan escaped the man’s lips and travelled, carried on the meandering breeze, straight to her ears.

“Margaret!”

She stopped stock still, fancying she might have truly lost command of her senses. Why would a stranger be groaning her name out into the wind, at dawn, on the Liverpool docks? Perhaps she  _ had _ been reading a little too much Brontë of late…

“Margaret!” 

There it was again! And louder now, intensified by the guttural projection of that unmistakable baritone, as the man raked his hands through his hair and seemed to writhe in pain, even as he stood almost immobile, on the very spot. She could no longer feign indifference. She stopped in her tracks, now several feet directly behind him as he watched the river carry away whatever thing had brought him here, to this place, in such a state. And it was there, in the resolute length of the legs, and the uncharacteristic collapse of the broad shoulders, and the flex and release of the large hands at his sides that his identity became apparent to her. 

“John…” she whispered, the name finding its natural home on her tongue. 

Whether it was the changing wind, or by some passionate instinct, the man turned with a sigh that was halted half way when his eyes came to rest upon her. 

“John.” she breathed again, although still too low to reach his ears. She could not help the smile that broke across her countenance, but her companion seemed nothing short of bewildered at her sudden appearance before him.

He gaped as she approached. He could not believe it, could not understand what strange twist of fate it was that she was now before him when she had, most certainly, left for Spain on the very ship he had been in two minds about diving in after and pursuing most relentlessly. Was this a dream, another fantasy sent to torment him? Or had his past head trauma and the exertions of the previous night combined to cement his true insanity at last? 

She was but a few feet away from him and with every moment he knew a more certainly it was she. He caught her scent on the breeze, and could feel her small weight reverberate through the planks underfoot with every step. And she was smiling as she approached, as if her short journey towards him were burdened with the most glorious purpose that had ever been entrusted to a woman. 

She stopped when she was within arms reach. Her eyes roved unconsciously over the smattering of coarseness across his jaw, dipping into the triangle of exposed skin under his unbuttoned collar. The cotton of his shirt was still damp from a night’s exertions, and it clung most unapologetically to the muscular outline of his chest and arms. 

Thickly she swallowed. How had she ever mistaken this demi-god for a common drunk?

“How came you here?” 

He cast his eyes about for a moment, as if he had forgotten the action required to put thoughts to words and say them out loud. When he did his voice trembled, betraying his great apprehension that this was all some elaborate dream.

“I… I rode here. From Milton.”

“Why did you ride here from Milton?” she asked, taking an unconscious step closer.

“I rode… I came… for you.” 

“For me?” 

“For you,” said he, with all his heart, “For love of you.”

They stood there a moment, transfixed. Her face split into a warm, wide smile at his anxious expression. She raised a hand to press to his cheek. Pleasant and prickly, just as she remembered. Her eyes roamed his features. That penetrating gaze, that uncompromising symmetry, those lips that had provided her the most sensuous pleasure and most harrowing pain throughout their acquaintance. She tilted her head in adoration. There could be no greater feeling than this!

He leaned into her touch, raising a hand to secure her own against his cheek, as if fearful some cruel, external thing might come and snatch it away. The one point of contact seemed to suffuse his being with hope, and he postured upwards to his rightful height, colour returning to his countenance in an instant. Margaret smiled at the sight.

Then suddenly, her habitual sense of propriety overwhelmed her, as it had been ever wont to do at the most inconvenient of times. Casting her eyes about to see if there was anyone around, she retracted her hand slowly, balling it up into a fist at her breast and she struggled to look at anything except his strangely appealing state of undress. 

Now it was John’s turn to smile, sympathetic as he was to her sudden coyness. But there was no time to lose. There were mysteries that had yet to be resolved. 

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice as gentle as his expression.

“Oh, I… well I… I’m not sure really…”

“Why didn’t you go to Spain?”

“I found that I… I thought perhaps… oh, I do not know! I do not know what I have done, nor what I am doing yet!”

She avoided his eyes as she cast about for answers that were still not in her possession to give. But a moment of laden silence bid her look up, and she was almost blinded by his countenance as he gazed lovingly at her, his face a reflection of the sun that had begun to peek over the distant Liverpool skyline. 

“You’re coming home with me.”

Her eyes widened for an instant at his audacity, but she could not help but return the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. In a moment of abandon she closed the space between them, and pressed her palms against the broad plain of his chest, surprised at the unseasonable heat she felt there.

He brought his hands to his chest to cover her own, never taking his eyes off her as he did so. Unsure of how to proceed given their significant difference in height, Margaret wrapped her fingers tightly around his left hand, raised it to her mouth and anointed its roughness with a fervent kiss.

“Margaret, I must warn you,” he breathed as he watched her, disbelieving still, “If you do not speak, if you do not send me away, I shall claim you as my own in some presumptuous way.”

“Then I shall say nothing, Mr Thornton,” she replied mischievously, glancing up briefly from her ministrations, “Besides, it would hardly be the first time...”

With a chuckle he gently grazed the back of his knuckles against her cheek, curling his fingers lightly around the side of her face and neck, his thumb resting just in front of her ear. Gaining purchase, he angled her face upwards towards his own, where she found such a glowing softness, she feared it would melt the very heart within her chest. Time slowed down, heads tilted and moved ever closer, until mouths were all but brushing against each other. He sought permission in her eyes before pressing all his love and desire into her warm, welcoming lips. 

Then they were lost. Drowning in this moment of passion, promise and forgiveness. He cradled her head softly whilst he caressed her cheek, wiping away the few tears that tracked their way into his grasp. She held onto his wrist with one hand, while the other rested on his breast, measuring the strong, steady heartbeat that anchored her to him, and this tender and resilient thing that had bound them to each other, against all odds. 

After several delicious moments, their quiet intimacy was interrupted most discourteously. A pair of boatmen, a French and Englishman, were carrying a cumbersome section of plank as they attempted to navigate their way across the pier.

“Hey Monet! Look at this! What have we got here?”

“ _ Je ne sais pas _ , Becker, but ‘zey are assuredly in ‘ze way!”

Instinctively, John broke their embrace, but held Margaret close, shielded in his arms. She buried her head in his shoulder, to at once conceal her embarrassment and stifle her giggles over the incredible impropriety of the moment. One of the sailors caught her motion, and took pity on the young lovers, whereas the other seemed bent on taking offense to their display.

“Aha, young love!” said the first whimsically, “Such  _ tendresse _ ! Such  _ passion _ !”

“Young love?” scoffed the other, “Utter foolishness, if ye’ ask me!”

And as they beat a hasty retreat, to collect her bag, his horse and enquire after hiring a carriage, the young couple could not help but agree. Most heartily indeed. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone of you who has taken to the time to read my story, and especially those who left their thoughts and feedback, particularly those who did so every week! I wish I could take you all out for a drink! 
> 
> Special thanks to DarkPartOfMyDestiny AKA Claudia Lomond without whom this story would never have been. And TheScribblerCMB for her help and feedback on the later chapters. And Muze whose wonderful, Liverpool based retelling 'Pride and Power' made me determined to include some shippy, harbourey shenanigans in my story. 
> 
> There are a few fluffy epilogues on the way, although perhaps not weekly as the chapter have been so far. Please, as ever, keep your comments coming, as they are us writers' bread and butter, and the wind at our backs.
> 
> One last thing, if you've enjoyed my writing so far, please sign up for my newsletter and be the first to know when a new story is released. It only takes a second: https://mailchi.mp/31974d07c38b/elizabeth-hades-writes . I have several full-length retellings planned, as well as a few shorts and one-shots. And I'd really hate for you to miss them!
> 
> With all the love in my great and tender heart,
> 
> EH


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